1 HEYEAKS  AT  THE  SPRING 

AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF  RECENT  POETRY 


■   ■    « 


COMPILED  BY LD'O.WALTERS  ILLUSTR?kTRD  BV' 

HARRY  CI ARKE 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


ri 


17^ 


THE  YEAR'S  AT 
THE  SPRING 


THE  YEAR'S  ATTHE  SPRING 

AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF  RECENT  POETRY 
COMPILED  BY  L.DO^^^ALTERS  AISID 
ILLUSTRATED  BY  HARRY  CLARKE 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY  HAROLD  MONRO 


BRENTANO'S 
FIFTH  AVENUE  2^    2  7  TH  STREET      NEW  YORK 


First  published  September  igso 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 
HY  Tlrnbli.l  &  Spf.ars,  Edinburgh 


INTRODUCTION 


/ 

/HE  best  poetry  is  always  about  the  caytJi  itself  and 
all  the  strange  and  lovely  things  that  compose  and 
inhabit  it.  When  a  '  great  poet '  sets  himself  the  task 
of  some  '  big  theme,'  he  needs  only  to  hold,  as  it  were,  a 
magnifying  glass  to  the  earth.  IVe  who  are  born  and 
live  here  like  very  much  to  imagine  other  worlds,  and  we 
have  even  mentally  constructed  such  another  in  which  to 
exist  after  dying  on  this  one  ;  but  we  were  carefid  to  make 
it  a  glorified  version  of  our  own  earth,  with  everything  we 
most  love  here  intensified  and  improved  to  the  utmost  stretch 
of  human  imagination. 

To  each  man  his  '  best  poetry '  is  that  which  lie  is  able 
most  to  enjoy.  The  first  object  of  poetry  is  to  give  pleasure. 
Pleasure  is  various,  but  it  cannot  exist  where  the  emotions 
or  the  imagination  have  not  been  powerfully  stirred.  Whether 
it  be  called  sensual  or  intellectual,  pleasure  cannot  be  willed. 
It  is  impossible  to  feel  hapPy  because  one  wants  to  feel  happy. 


THE     •  TEAR'S     •  AT    •     THE     •  SPRING 

or  sad  because  one  wishes  to  feci  sad.  But  such  bodily  or 
mental  conditions  may  be  induced  from  outside  through  a 
natural  agency  such  as  poetry,  or  music. 

Now  those  dreary  people  who  would  maintain  that  poetry 
should  deal  {some  say  exclusively)  with  what  they  call  '  big 
themes,'  or  '  the  larger  life,'  are  merely  advocating  more  use 
of  the  magnifying  glass  as  against  intensive  cultivation  of  the 
natural  eye.  The  poet  is  essentially  he  who  examines  care- 
fully, and  learns  to  know  fully,  every  detail  of  common  life. 
He  seeks  to  name  in  a  variety  of  manners,  and  to  define,  the 
objects  about  him,  to  compare  them  with  other  objects,  near  or 
remote,  and  to  find,  for  the  mere  sake  of  enjoyment ,  wonderful 
varieties  of  description  and  conparison.  When  he  imagines 
better  places  than  his  earth,  or  invents  gods,  the  impersona- 
tion and  combination  of  the  fortunate  qualities  in  mati,  he  is 
then  tising  the  magnifying  glass  with  talent,  occasionally 
with  rare  genius.  But  the  poet  who  seeks,  without  genius, 
to  magnify  is  simply  a  fool  who  sees  everything  too  big, 
and  boasts,  in  the  loudest  voice  he  can  raise,  of  his  diseased 
eyesight. 

One  of  the  peculiarities,  or  perhaps  rather  the  essential 
quality,  of  the  lyrical  poetry  of  to-day  is  a  minute  concentra- 
tion on  the  objects  immediately  near  it  and  an  anxious 
carefulness  to  describe  these  in  the  most  appropriate  and 
satisfactory  terms.  Thus  it  is  often  accused  of  a  neglect  to 
sublimate  the  emotions,  and  many  critics  have  been  at  pains 
to  suggest  that  this  affection  for  the  nearest  and  that  careful 

6 


THE     •     TEAR'S     ■     AT    •  rHE     ■     SPRING 

description  of  natural  events  denotes  a  smallness  of  mental 
range.  Be  it  noted,  however,  that  the  eye  whicli  does  not 
look  too  far  often  sees  most.  It  is  remarkable  that  English 
lyrical  poetry  should  have  learnt  in  this  period  of  religious 
uncertainty  to  clasp  itself  at  least  to  a  reality  that  cannot  be 
questioned  or  doubted.  So  far  its  faith  reaches.  It  expresses 
a  trustfulness  in  what  it  can  definitely  perceive,  it  hardly 
ventures  outside  the  circles  of  human  daily  experience ,  and  in 
this  capacity  it  reveals  an  excellence  of  many  kinds,  sincerity 
often,  and,  at  worst,  a  playfulness  which,  if  ephemeral,  is 
amusing  at  any  rate  to  those  whom  it  is  intended  to  amuse, 
and  appropriately  irritating  to  those  whom  it  wants  to 
annoy. 

Btit  the  most  noticeable  characteristic  of  the  verse  of  our 
present  moment  is  its  dislike  of  the  aloofness  generally 
associated  with  English  poetry.  About  twice  a  centttry 
language  consolidates :  phrases  which  were  once  soft  and 
new  harden  with  use ;  words  once  of  a  ringing  beauty  be- 
come dry  and  hollow  through  excessive  repetition.  This  state 
of  language  is  not  much  7iot iced  by  people  who  have  no  special 
use  for  it  beyond  the  expression  of  daily  needs.  Moreover, 
they  make  new  colloquial  words  for  themselves  as  required 
withotit  forethought  or  difficulty.  Poets,  however,  must 
consciously  seai'ch  for  new  words,  and  a  tired  condition  of 
their  language  is  to  them  a  great  difficulty.  The  Victorians 
were  absolute  spendthrifts  of  words :  no  vocabulary  could  keep 
pace  with   their   recklessness ;   they   bequeathed  a  language 

7 


THE     '     r  E  J  R'S     •     AT         THE     ■     SPRING 

almost  ruined  for  sentimental  purposes — luords  and  phrases 
had  acquired  either  such  an  aloofness  that  for  a  long  time 
no  one  any  more  ivould  trouble  to  reach  up  to  them,  or  had 
become  so  thin  and  common  that  to  use  them  luould  have  been 
something  like  hack-sawing  a  piece  of  cotton. 

Now  in  the  anthology  which  follows  we  may  notice  a 
characteristic  escape  from  these  difficulties.  IVords  have 
been  brought  down  from  their  high  places  and  compelled  into 
ordinary  use.  This  has  been  accomplished  not  so  much 
through  any  new  familiarity  with  the  words  themselves 
as  by  a  certain  naturalness  in  the  attitude  of  the  people 
employing  them.  Rupert  Brookes  ''Great  Lover"  is  an 
example. 

In  short,  these  are  the  chief  reasons  why  present-day 
poetry  is  readable  and  entertaining — that  it  deals  with 
familiar  subjects  in  a  familiar  tnanner ;  that,  in  doing  so,  it 
uses  ordinary  words  literally  and  as  often  as  possible ;  that 
it  is  not  aloof  or  pretentious  ;  that  it  refuses  to  be  btdlied  by 
tradition  :  its  style,  in  fact,  is  itself 


II 

If  an  excuse  is  to  be  sought  for  the  addition  of  this  one 
more  to  the  large  number  of  existent  collections  of  recent 
poetry,  let  it  be  in  the  tiature  of  an  explanation  rather  than  an 
apology.  Good,  or  even  representative,  poetry  requires,  in  fact, 
no  apology,  but  where  the  poems  of  some  thirty-two  different 

8 


rHE     '     YEAR'S     '     AT    ■     THE     •  SPRING 

authors  have  been  extyacted  from  their  books  and  placed  side 
by  side  in  one  collection,  a  discussion  of  the  apparent  aims  of 
the  anthologist  may  be  interesting,  and  will  perhaps  lead  to  a 
fuller  enjoy )}icnt  of  the  collection  thus  produced. 

Some  readers  approach  a  volume  of  poems  to  criticize  it, 
others  with  the  object  of  gaining  pleasure.  To  give  pleasure 
is  assuredly  the  object  of  this  volume.  Moreover,  it  is 
adapted  to  the  tastes  of  almost  any  age,  from  ten  to  ninety, 
and  may  be  read  aloud  by  grandchild  to  grandparent  as 
suitably  as  by  grandparent  to  graiulchild.  It  is  an  anthology 
of  Poems,  not  of  Names.  For  instance,  though  Thomas 
Hardy  is  on  the  list,  the  lyric  chosen  to  represent  him  is 
actually  )nore  characteristic  of  the  book  itself  than  of  the 
mind  of  that  great  and  aged  poet.  It  is,  in  fact.  Christian 
in  atmosphere.  It  is  not  a  typical  specimen  of  Mr  Hardy  s 
style.  It  shows  him  in  that  occasional  rather  sad  mood  of 
regret  for  a  lost  superstition.  It  is  not  the  best  of  Hardy,  but 
rather  a  poem  admirably  suited  to  the  book,  which  also  hap- 
pens, as  by  chance,  to  be  by  the  author  of  "  The  Dynasts  "  and 
"  Satires  of  Circumstance." 

Ill 

The  collection  as  a  whole  is  modern,  and  all  except  eight 
of  its  authors  are  living  and  writing.  Of  those  eight,  five 
died  as  soldiers  in  the  European  War.,  and  are  represented 
mainly  by  what  is  known  as  '  War  poetry.'  Otherwise  such 
poetry  is  fortunately  absent.     This  absence  may  be  Justified 

9 


THE     .  TEAR'S     •     AT    •  THE     •  SPRING 

by  the  fact  that  most  of  the  verse  written  on  the  subject  of  the 
War  turns  out,  surveyed  in  cooler  blood,  to  be,  as  any  sound 
judge  of  literature  must  always  have  known,  dcfnitely  and 
unmistakably  bad.  Much  of  it  is  by  now,  or  should  be, 
repudiated  by  its  authors.  It  was  too  often  "  the  spontaneous 
overflow  of  powerf id  feelings'' ;  it  too  seldom  originated  from 
''emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity!' 

Rupert  Brooke s  sonnets  "  The  Dead"  and  "  The  Soldier  " 
were  popular  almost  from  their  frst  publication .  They  belong 
tindoubtedly  to  the  best  traditions  of  English  poetry.  Julian 
Grenf ell's  "Into  Battle,"  and,  in  a  lesser  degree,  the  "Home 
Thoughts  from  Laventie"  of  Edward  IVyndliam  Tennant, 
have  acquired  popularity  among  a  larger  number  of  folk 
than  can  be  included  in  the  general  term  '  literary  circles.' 
Neither  of  the  composers  of  these  verses  was  a  professional 
poet.  Both  were  men  of  attractive  personality  and  strong 
feeling,  with  education,  taste,  and  an  occasional  impulse  to 
write  gracefully.  Intrinsically  either  poem  might  as  easily 
have  been  inspired  by  an  Indian  frontier  raid  as  by  a 
European  war.  They  do  not  affect  the  traditions  of  English 
poetry  by  subject  or  by  form.  It  ivill  be  found,  as  the  years 
pass,  that  always  fewer  '  War  poems '  can  still  be  read  2vith 
pleasure,  the  incidents  which  gave  rise  to  them  having  become 
dim  in  human  memory.  And  these  will  not  be  read  because 
of  their  associatio?i  with  the  Great  War,  but  for  their 
qualities  as  poems  and  their  power  to  stir  enjoyment  or 
surprise  in  the  reader. 

lO 


THE     '    TERR'S     '    AT    •  THE     •     SPRING 

Consider  those  four  melancholy  lines  by  ivhich  Edward 
Thomas  is  here  represented,  remarkable  for  their  concentration 
and  for  the  crowd  of  images  they  can  suggest.  At  present 
the  words  ''where  all  that  passed  are  dead''  alone  asso- 
ciate this  poem  with  the  War.  But  death  comes  through 
so  many  causes  that  twenty  years  from  now  a  footnote 
would  be  needed  if  it  were  desired  to  emphasize  that 
association. 

J.  E.  Eleckers  "  Dying  Patriot^'  one  of  his  three  poems 
in  this  book,  was  written  in  igi4  in  Switzerland,  where 
he  was  dyiftg  of  consumption.  It  is  certainly  less  a  '  War 
Poem  '  than  the  same  author  s  "  War  Song  of  the  Saracens'' 

The  verses  entitled  "A  Petition,"  by  R.  E.  Fcrndde,  are 
of  a  different  kind.  They  are  written  in  conventional  Henley- 
Kiplingcse,  and  contain  too  many  incidents  of  a  type  of  poetic 
expression  that  has  been  used  to  excess,  as  ''wider  than 
all  seas','  "  to  front  the  world,"  "  quenchless  hope','  "All  that 
a  man  might  ask  thou  hast  given  me,  England!'  They  are, 
nevertheless,  usefid  in  the  collection  as  a  set-off  against  the 
other  '  War  poems '  and  an  instance  of  the  more  ephemeral 
type  of  patriotic  verse. 

Thus  it  wojdd  appear  that  the  anthologist  has  displayed 
wisdom  when  including  in  this  volume  only  few  pieces  that 
may  be  associated  with  the  War,  and  those  few  {with  one 
exception)  on  the  score  of  their  literary  merit,  and  for  no 
other  reason. 


II 


THE     •     YEAR'S     •     AT    •     THE     •     SPRING 

IV 

Poets  of  to-day  ivrite  individually  less  than  their  pre- 
decessors, and  most  of  them  are  satisfied  to  publish  only  a 
proportion  of  what  they  write.  None  of  the  eight  referred  to 
above  left  us  any  great  bulk  of  verse.  Four  at  least,  however, 
are  becoming  daily  better  known  to  the  reading  public,  and  of 
these  Rupert  Brooke  and  J.  E.  Flecker  have  already  their 
dozens  of  conscious  or  unconscious  imitators.  The  form, 
rhythm,  or  Eastern  atmosphere  of  Fleckers  poetry,  the 
cynicism  and  wit  of  Brookes,  recur  somewhat  diluted  in  the 
verse  of  almost  every  young  undergraduate.  Neither  Lionel 
Johnson  nor  Mary  Coleridge  has  ever  become  so  well  known 
or  received  so  much  attention  from  the  average  plagiarist, 
while  the  reputation  of  Edward  Thomas  has  been  of  slow  and 
uncertain  growth.  Johnson's  poetry  is  too  intellectual  for 
the  average  reader.  The  wonderful,  small  lyrics  of  Mary ' 
Coleridge  are  esoteric  rather  than  general.  Nevertheless,  this 
anthology  includes,  most  advisedly,  a  good  poem  by  Johnson, 
one  indeed  whicJi  has  had  a  quiet,  but  strong,  influence  on 
modern  lyrical  poetry,  namely,  the  lines  to  the  statue  of 
King  Charles  at  Charing  Cross,  and  also  a  charming 
impression  by  Mary  Coleridge. 

''Street  Lanterns''  is  a  good  example  of  that  poetry  of 
close  observation  to  wJiicJi  reference  has  already  been  made. 
It   is   a   small,  careful  description  of  a  London   scene.     It 
assumes  that  the  reader  has  observed  as  much,  and  that  he 

12 


rHE     '     TEAR'S     '     AT    •     THE    •     SPRING 

will  enjoy  to  be  reminded  and  brought  back  for  a  moment  in 
imagination  to  autnmn  and  strvet-jnending.  The  advocate  of 
'  big  themes '  will  inevitably  condemn  such  verse,  for  the  poet 
has  aimed  at  neither  size  nor  grandeur,  has  indeed  sought 
rather  to  diminish  her  subject  than  enlarge  it. 


V 

This  anthology,  it  has  been  remarked  above,  is  one  rather  of 
particular  poems  than  of  well-knoivn  authors.  Several  names 
of  repute  are  not  to  be  found  in  the  index.  William  IVatson 
is  only  represented  by  "  April^'  a  little  catch  that  might  come 
to  any  man  of  feeling  on  a  spring  walk.  To  think  in  terms 
of  these  verses  is  at  once  not  to  mind  having  left  an  uiubrella 
at  home.  Hilaire  Belloc  gives  a  sharp  impression  of  early 
rising ;  he  also  sings  in  a  great  voice  all  the  glories  of  his 
favourite  part  of  England.  JV.  H.  Davies  brings  sheep  across 
the  Atlantic,  and  he  talks  to  a  kingfisher.  Mrs  Meynell  con- 
tributes "  The  Shepherdess','  that  7vell-kno7vn  description  of  a 
pure  and  serene  mind,  also  two  London  poons,  of  which  one  is 
the  lovely  ''November  Blue."'  fohn  Masefield  is  not  to  be  read 
ill  his  best  style,  but  the  three  poems  we  find  here  are  thoroughly 
English,  full  of  the  love  of  the  island  soil  and  of  its  sea,  and 
are  probably  in  the  book  for  that  reason.  So  much  for  some 
of  the  well-known  contributors.  Side  by  side  with  them  we 
find  the  unknown  name  of  H.  H.  Abbott,  wJiose  ''Black  and 
White  "  is  a  sketch  of  7'emarkable  clarity  and  interest. 

13 


THE     •  TEAR'S     •  AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 

Death,  so  favourite  a  subject  with  poets,  is  seldom  allowed 
to  figure  in  this  book.  Betsey-Jane  would  insist  on  going  to 
Heaven,  but  is  told,  in  the  charming  verses  by  Helen  Parry 
Eden,  that  it  simply  "  would  not  do."  The  whole  book  is  too 
full  of  pleasure  and  the  experience  of  being  alive :  Betsey  fane 
should  read  it.  She  might  remember  all  her  life  the  advice 
given  on  page  iiy,  and  be  saved  hundreds  of  pounds  in 
lawyers   bills  when  she  is  grown  up. 

Let  the  reader  turn  to  page  114.  Here  is  the  style  in 
which  good  poetry  prefers  to  teach,  and  by  which  it  achieves 
more  in  eleven  lines  than  a  Martin  Tupper  in  11,000.  Mr 
Pepler  has  written  down  only  one  sentence,  charmingly  im- 
proved by  a  series  of  most  natural  rhytnes.  It  is  a  very  nasty 
hit  at  the  lawyer.  He  does  not  tell  him  he  is  not  a  '  gentle- 
man,' or  anything  so  strong  as  that.  He  pays  him  what 
might  be  taken  for  a  compliment.  He  assumes  that  he  does 
understand  his  own  job.  Then  he  enumerates  the  things  he 
does  not  understand.  He  attaches  no  blame  :  he  makes  a 
statement  only;  one  that  the  lawyer  certainly  will  not  think 
worth  arguing  about,  but  that  his  client  may  advisedly  take 
to  heart. 

Ralph  Hodgson s  "  Stupidity  Street"  argues  in  somewhat 
the  same  manner.  It  does  not  suggest  that  anyone  should 
become  vegetarian,  or  that  it  is  wro)ig  to  kill  birds.  It  names 
a  street  and  gives  a  reason  for  doing  so.  It  is  an  angry  little 
poem,  but  impersonal. 

"  The  Bells  of  Heaven"  by  the  same  author,  simply  chances 

14 


THE     •  TEAR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     •  SPRING 

a  hint  that  something  might  happen  if  something  else  did. 
It  is  a  suggestion  only,  but  made  by  one  who  knows  what 
he  thinks,  and  how  to  think  it.  Into  a  few  lines  a  whole 
philosophy  is  concentrated. 

Thus  Pepler  or  Ralph  Hodgson  nudge  people  s  arms  and 
draw  attention  to  traditional  stupidities. 

Walter   De    la   Mare  puts    the  children   to   sleep  with 
"  Nod,"  or  bewitches  them  with  the  Mad  Prince  s  Song ;  or  he 
takes  us  to  an  Arabia  which  never  existed,  but  is  one  of 
those  countries  more  beautiful  than  any  we  know,  and  there- 
fore we  love  to  imagine  it. 

Look  at  that  full  moon  on  page  ^j,  which  Dick  sa7v  "  one 
night."  Here  is  the  possible  experience  of  man,  woma)i,  child, 
dog,  fox,  bear — or  even  nightingale — all  concentrated  into  the 
shortest  and  plainest  account  of  something  that  happened  to 
Dick.  He  and  Betsey  fane,  though  quite  different  in  kind, 
belong  to  the  same  world.  Betsey-Jane  is  plainly  more 
romatitic  than  Dick. 

But,  talking  of  the  moon,  we  may  turn  back  to  Mr 
Chesterton  on  page  j6.  Here  we  find  something  incongruous 
in  the  collection :  a  poem  that  wishes  deliberately  to  strike 
a  note.  The  donkey  is  a  much  better  fellow  than  Mr 
Chesterton  seems  to  thi}ik :  he  does  not  ask  for  glorification, 
nor  would  lie  utter  that  boast  of  the  last  two  lines.  IVoidd  a 
man  not  rather  "go  with  the  wild  asses  to  Paradise"  than 
have  the  case  for  the  donkey  pleaded  before  him  in  this 
obtrusive  manner  ? 

15 


THE     •     TEAR'S    ■     AT    •  THE     •  SPRING 

Turn  back  four  pages  and  you  will  find : 

For  the  good  are  always  the  merry, 

Save  by  an  evil  chance, 
And  the  merry  love  the  fiddle. 

And  the  merry  love  to  dance. 

This,  by  IV.  B.  Yeats,  represents  a  much  pleasanter  type 
of  thought.  In  these  verses  of  the  Irish  poet  we  have  the 
gaiety  of  a  man  who,  knowing  all  about  religion,  can  afford 
not  to  be  sentimental.     And  here  is  the  spirit  of  the  book. 

The  happiness  of  those  who  love  the  earth  is  so  different 
from  the  pleasure  by  proxy  of  those  that  abide  it  in  the  idea 
of  going  to  some  Heaven  afterivard.  Mr  Yeats'  "  Fiddler  of 
Dooney  "  is  that  type  of  fellow  who  accepts  the  symbolism  of  a 
national  religion  only  in  so  far  as  it  may  help  him  to  enjoy 
the  condition  of  being  alive.  And  in  his  "  Lake  Isle  of  Innis- 
free  "  he  imagines  a  Paradise  which  is  of  the  earth  only.  And 
he  takes  you  there  by  reason  of  his  own  longing. 

VI 

This  anthology,  as  a  whole,  is  romantic  ;  its  language  is 
simple  ;  its  philosophy  is  that  of  everyday  life,  and  is  entirely 
undistui'bing.  It  contains  a  large  proportion  of  poems  by 
authors  who  write  more  particularly  for  children,  such  as 
P.  R.  Chalmers,  Rose  Fyleman,  Queenic  Scott-Hopper,  and 
Marion  St  John  Webb,  or  of  children  s  poems  by  authors  who 
do  not  actually  specialize  in  that  style,  such  as  "  The  Ragwort," 

i6 


THE     •  YEAR'S     •  AT    •  tHE     •  SPRING 

by  Frances  Cornford ;  ''Cradle  Song,"  by  Sarojini  Naidu ; 
"  Check"  by  Jaines  Stephens,  and  others.  Two  of  its  authors 
remain  necessarily  nmnentioned  here,  namely,  the  compiler  of 
the  book  and  the  writer  of  this  Introduction. 

Some  people  make  it  their  business  to  pick  anthologies 
to  pieces,  and  they  seem  to  enjoy  themselves.  "  IV hy  is  this 
included?"  they  cry;  ''Why  is  that  left  out?" — a  form 
of  criticism  nearly  always  beside  the  point.  Inclusion  or 
exclusion  is  in  the  taste  and  discretion  of  the  anthologist. 

This  Introduction  may,  it  is  hoped,  stimulate  the  reader 
of  the  poems  which  follow  to  think  about  them  carefully  in 
their  relation  to  each  other,  and  in  their  relation  to  English 
poetry  as  a  whole.  For  tJiough  it  has  frequently  been  e^n- 
phasized  that  the  object  of  poetry  {and particularly  of  lyrical 
poetry)  is  to  give  pleasure,  it  should  nevertheless  be  added  that 
intellectual  pleasure  cannot  be  gathered  at  random,  or  without 
certain  preparatioyi  of  the  mind  to  receive  it. 

HAROLD  MONRO 


B  17 


MiiiiiiiiiiniuiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiii{Mniiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii>i 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

For  permission  to  use  copyright  poems  the  Editor  is  indebted  to : 

Tke  Authors~H.  H.  Abbott,  Hilaire  Belloc,  P.  R.  Chalmers, 
G.  K.  Chesterton,  Frances  Cornford,  W.  H.  Davies,  Walter  De  la 
Mare,  John  Drinkwater,  Rose  Fyleman,  W.  W.  Gibson,  Robert 
Graves,  Ralph  Hodgson,  Teresa  Hooley,  Margaret  Mackenzie, 
Irene  R.  McLeod,  John  Masefield,  Alice  Meynell,  Harold  Monro, 
Sarojini  Naidu,  H.  D.  C.  Pepler,  James  Stephens,  Sir  William 
Watson,  Marion  St  John  Webb,  and  W.   B.  Yeats. 

The  Literary  Executors  of  Rupert  Brooke,  Mary  E.  Coleridge 
(Sir  Henry  Newbolt),  James  Elroy  Flecker  (Mrs  Flecker),  Julian 
Grenfell  (Lady  Desborough),  Lionel  Johnson  (Mr  Elkin  Mathews), 
Edward  Wyndham  Tennant  (Lady  Glenconner),  Edward  Thomas 
(Messrs  Selwyn  and  Blount),   R.   E.  Vernede. 

And  the  following  Publishers,  in  respect  of  the  poems  selected  : 
Messrs  Burns  and  Gates,  Ltd. 

Alice  Meynell  :  Collected  Poems. 

Messrs  Constable  and  Co.,  Ltd. 

Walter  De  la  Mare  :   The  Listeners,  Peacock  Pie. 
Messrs  J.  M.  Dent  and  Sons,  Ltd. 

G.  K.  Chesterton  :   The  Wild  Knight. 

19 


THE     '     TERR'S     •  u4  T    •  THE     •  SPRING 

Messrs  Duckworth  and  Co. 
Hilaire  Belloc  :    Verses. 

Mr  A.  C.  Fifield 

W.  H.  Davies  :  Collected  Poents. 

Messrs  George  G.  Harrap  and  Co.,  Ltd. 
E.  J.  Brady:    The  House  of  the  Winds. 
Queenie  Scott-Hopper:  Ptill  the  Bobbin  I 
Marion  St  John  Webb  :   The  Littlest  One. 

Mr  W.  Heinemann,  London,  and  the  John  Lane  Company,  New  York 
Sarojini  Naidu  :   The  Golde^i  Threshold. 

Messrs  Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  Boston 

John  Drinkwater  :  Poems  by  John  Drtnkwater. 

Mr  John  Lane,  London,  and  the  John  Lane  Company,  New  York 
Helen  Parry  Eden:  Bread  and  Circuses. 
Edward  Wyndham  Tennajit,  by  Pamela  Glenconner. 

Messrs     Macmillan    and    Co.,    Ltd.,     London,    and    the    Macmillan 

Company,  New  York 
W.  W.  Gibson  :   Whin. 
Ralph  Hodgson  :  Poems. 
J.   Stephens:    The  Adventures  of  Sejimas  Beg,   Songs  from  the- 

Clay. 
W.  B.  Yeats:  Poems  :  Second  Series. 

The  Macmillan  Company,  New  York 

John  Masefield  :  Ballads  and  Poems. 

Messrs  Maunsel  and  Co. 

P.  R.  Chalmers  :  Green  Days  and  Blue  Days. 

Messrs  Methuen  and  Co.,  Ltd. 

Rose  Fyleman  :  Fairies  and  Chimneys,  The  Fairy  Green. 

The  Poetry  Bookshop 

H.  H.  Abbott :  Black  and  White. 
Frances  Cornford  :  Spring  Morning. 
R.  Graves  :  Over  the  Brazier. 

20 


THE 


Y E  AR'S 


AT 


THE 


S  P  R ING 


Messrs  Sands  and  Co. 

M.  Mackenzie  :   The  Station  Platform,  and  Other  Poems. 

Mr  Martin  Seeker 

J.  E.  Flecker:   Collected  Poems. 

Francis  Brett  Young  :  Poetns,  igi6-igi8. 

Messrs  Selwyn  and   Blount,   London,  and   Messrs   Henry   Holt  and 
Company,  New  York 
Edward  Thomas :  Poems. 

Messrs  Sidgwick  and  Jackson,  Ltd. 

J .  Redwood  Anderson  :    Walls  and  Hedges. 
John  Drinkwater  :  Swords  and  Ploughshares. 

Messrs   Sidgwick  and  Jackson,   Ltd.,  and  the  John  Lane  Company, 
New  York 
Rupert  Brooke  :  igi4,  arid  Other  Poems. 

Messrs  T.  Fisher  Unwin,  Ltd. 
W.  B.  Yeats  :  Poems. 


CONTENTS 

ARRANGED      UNDER      NAMES      OF      AUTHORS 


Abbott,  H.  H. 

Black  and  White 

126 

Anderson,  J.  Redwood 

The  Bridge 

118 

Belloc,  Hilaire 

The  Early  Morning 

37 

The  South  Country 

38 

Brady,  E.  J. 

A  Ballad  of  the  Captains 

47 

Brooke,  Rupert 

The  Dead 

60 

The  Great  Lover 

61 

The  Soldier 

65 

23 


THE     '     TERR'S     ' 

JT    •     THE 

•     SPRING 

Chalmers,  P.  R. 

If  I  had  a  Broomstick 

74 

Roundabouts  and  Swings 

75 

Chesterton,  G.  K. 

The  Donkey 

■ 

36 

Coleridge,  Mary  E. 

Street  Lanterns 

• 

116 

CoRNFORD,  Frances 

In  France 

71 

The  Ragwort 

• 

72 

Davies,  W.  H. 

The  Kingfisher  . 

. 

85 

Sheep 

• 

86 

De  la  Mare,  Walter 

Arabia 

. 

51 

Full  Moon 

. 

53 

Nod 

. 

54 

The  Song  of  the 

Mad  Prince  . 

56 

Drixkwater,  John 

A  Town  Window  .  .  .  78 

Eden,  Helen  Parry 

To  Betsey-Jane,  on  her  Desiring  to  go 

Incontinently  to  Heaven    .  117 

24 


THE     •     TEAR'S     •     AT    •     THE     •     SPRING 

Flecker,  James  E. 

Brumana  ....  79 

The  Dying  Patriot         ...  80 

November  Eves  ...  82 

Fyleman,  Rose 

Alms  in  Autumn  .  .  .         105 

I  Don't  Like  Beetles  .  .  .107 

Wishes    .  .  .  .  .108 

Gibson,  W.  W. 

Sweet  as  the  Breath  of  the  Whin       ".         113 

Graves,  Robert 

Star-Talk  .  ...  .83 

Grenfell,  Julian 

Into  Battle  ....  91 

Hardy,  Thomas 

The  Oxen  .  .  .  .128 

Hodgson,  Ralph 

The  Bells  of  Heaven  ...  99 

The  Song  of  Honour  .  .  .100 

Stupidity  Street  .  .  .         102 

Hooley,  Teresa 

Sea-Foam  .  .  .  .123 

Johnson,  Lionel 

By    the    Statue    of    King    Charles    at 

Charing  Cross         ...  66 

25 


rHE   •  r E J R's   '  Ar  •   the   •   spring 

Mackenzie,  Margaret 

To  the  Coming  Spring  .  .         103 

McLeod,  Irene  R. 

Lone  Dog  ....  73 

Masefield,  John 

Sea  Fever  .  .  .  .41 

Tewkesbury  Road  ...  43 

The  West  Wind  ...  45 

Meynell,  Alice 

A  Dead  Harvest  •  •  •  57 

November  Blue  ...  58 

The  Shepherdess  •  •  •  59 

Monro,  Harold 

Overheard  on  a  Saltmarsh        .  .  94 

A    Flower    is    Looking    through    the 

Ground        ....  96 

Man  Carrying  Bale        ...  97 

Naidu,  Sarojini 

Cradle-Song        •  •  •  •  35 

Pepler,  H.  D.  C. 

The  Law  the  Lawyers  Know  About   .         114 

Scott-Hopper,  Queenie 

Very  Nearly!      .  .  .  ,109 

What  the  Thrush  Says  .         no 

26 


THE     •     TEAR'S     •     AT    •     THE 

•     SPRING 

Stephens,  James 

Check 

69 

When  the  Leaves  Fall . 

70 

Tennant,  E.  W. 

Home  Thoughts  in  Laventie    . 

88 

Thomas,  E. 

The  Cherry  Trees 

98 

Vernede,  R.  E. 

A  Petition 

124 

Walters,  L.  D'O. 

All  is  Spirit  and  Part  of  Me  .  .         115 

Watson,  Sir  William 

April        .  .  .  .  .31 

Webb,  Marion  St  John 

The  Sunset  Garden        .  .  .         112 

Yeats,  W.  B. 

The  Fiddler  of  Dooney  .  .  32 

The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree       .  .  34 

Young,  Francis  Brett 

February  .  .  .  .121 


27 


i 


LIST    OF     ILLUSTRATIONS 


The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree 

Frontispiece 

April             ... 

31 

The  Fiddler  of  Dooney   . 

32 

Cradle-Song 

35 

The  Donkey 

36 

Sea  Fever    . 

41 

A  Ballad  of  the  Captains 

47.48 

Arabia 

51 

The  Song  of  the  Mad  Prince 

56 

The  Shepherdess    . 

59 

The  Dead     . 

60 

The  Great  Lover  . 

62,  64 

If  I  had  a  Broomstick 

74 

The  Dying  Patriot 

80,  82 

29 

THE 


r  E  A  R'S 


AT 


THE 


S  P  R ING 


Star-Talk     . 

Overheard  on  a  Saltmarsh 

To  THE  Coming  Spring 

Alms  in  Autumn 

Very  Nearly  ! 

All  is  Spirit  and  Part  of  Me 

Black  and  White  . 


84 

94 
103 

106 

109 

"5 
126 


H^RR*«',Cl-A«Kt 


'  AI'KII.,    Al'RIL,    LALI.H     THY     (.IKLISH     L\f  (.H  IKK   I 


3' 


THE     ■     TEAR'S     -     AT    •  THE     •  SPRING 


April 


APRIL,  April, 
Laugh  thy  girlish  laughter  ; 
Then,  the  moment  after, 
Weep  thy  girlish  tears  ! 
April,  that  mine  ears 
Like  a  lover  greetest. 
If  I  tell  thee,  sweetest, 
All  my  hopes  and  fears, 

April,  April, 
Laugh  thy  golden  laughter. 
But,  the  moment  after, 
Weep  thy  golden  tears. 

WILLIAM  WATSON 


31 


THE     ■     YEAR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


The  Fiddler  of  Dooney 

HEN  I  play  on  my  fiddle  in  Dooney, 
Folk  dance  like  a  wave  of  the  sea  ; 

My  cousin  is  priest  in  Kilvarnet, 
My  brother  in  Moharabuiee. 

I  passed  my  brother  and  cousin  : 
They  read  in  their  books  of  prayer  ; 

I  read  in  my  book  of  songs 
I  bought  at  the  Sligo  fair. 

When  we  come  at  the  end  of  time, 

To  Peter  sitting  in  state. 
He  will  smile  on  the  three  old  spirits, 

But  call  me  first  through  the  gate  ; 

For  the  good  are  always  the  merr)^ 

Save  by  an  evil  chance, 
And  the  merry  love  the  fiddle, 

And  the  merry  love  to  dance  : 


32 


"  WHEN     \VK    COME    AT    THE    END    OF    TIME,    TO    PETEK    SITTINf,    IN    STATE 


32 


THE     '     TEJR^S    •  JT    -     THE     -     SPRING 

And  when  the  folk  there  spy  me, 

They  will  all  come  up  to  me, 
With  "  Here  is  the  fiddler  of  Dooney  !  " 

And  dance  like  a  wave  of  the  sea. 

w.  B.  YEATS 


33 


THE     ■     VEER'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree 

WILL  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree, 
And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and  wattles 

made ; 
Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for  the 

honey  bee. 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 

And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace  comes 

dropping  slow. 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning  to  where 

the  cricket  sings ; 
There  midnight's  all  a  glimmer,  and  noon  a  purple 

glow. 

And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings. 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always,  night  and  day, 
I  hear  lake-water  lapping  with  low  sounds  by  the  shore ; 
While  I  stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the  pavements 

grey, 

I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core. 

w.  B.  YEATS 
34 


THE     ■     r  E  J  R'S    ■     JT    ■    THE     ■    SPRING 


Cradle-Song 


r'ROM  groves  of  spice, 
O'er  fields  of  rice, 
Athwart  the  lotus-stream, 
I  bring  for  you, 
Aglint  with  dew, 
A  little  lovely  dream. 

Sweet,  shut  your  eyes, 

The  wild  fire-flies 

Dance  through  the  fairy  neem  ;  ^ 

From  the  poppy-bole 

For  you  I  stole 
A  little  lovely  dream. 

Dear  eyes,  good-night, 
In  golden  light 
The  stars  around  you  gleam  ; 
On  you  I  press 
With  soft  caress 
A  little  lovely  dream. 

SAROJINI  NAIDU 
^  A  lilac-tree  (Hindustani). 

35 


THE    ■    YEAR'S     ■    AT    ■     THE     ■    SPRING 


The  Donkey 

HEN  fishes  flew  and  forests  walked 

And  figs  grew  upon  thorn, 
Some  moment  when  the  moon  was  blood 

Then  surely  I  was  born  ; 

With  monstrous  head  and  sickening  cry 

And  ears  like  errant  wings, 
The  devil's  walking  parody 

On  all  four-footed  things. 

The  tattered  outlaw  of  the  earth, 

Of  ancient  crooked  will ; 
Starve,  scourge,  deride  me  :   I  am  dumb, 

I  keep  my  secret  still. 

Fools  !     For  I  also  had  my  hour  ; 

One  far  fierce  hour  and  sweet : 
There  was  a  shout  about  my  ears. 

And  palms  before  my  feet. 

G.  K.  CHESTERTON 
36 


THE    ■    TEAR'S     ■    A7    ■    THE    ■    SPRING 


The  Early  Morning 

THE  moon  on  the  one  hand,  the  dawn  on  the 
other : 
The    moon    Is    my    sister,    the    dawn    is    my 
brother. 
The    moon    on    my  left    and    the    dawn   on    my 

right. 
My    brother,    good    morning :     my    sister,    good 


night. 


HILAIRE  BELLOC 


THE     ■     VEER'S     ■     at:    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


The  South  Country 

WHEN  I  am  living  in  the  Midlands 
That  are  sodden  and  unkind, 
I  light  my  lamp  in  the  evening : 
My  work  is  left  behind  ; 
And  the  great  hills  of  the  South  Country 
Come  back  into  my  mind. 


The  great  hills  of  the  South  Country 

They  stand  along  the  sea  ; 
And  it's  there  walking  in  the  high  woods 

That  I  could  wish  to  be, 
And  the  men  that  were  boys  when  I  was  a  boy 

Walking  along  with  me. 

The  men  that  live  in  North  England 

I  saw  them  for  a  day : 
Their  hearts  are  set  upon  the  waste  fells, 

Their  skies  are  fast  and  grey ; 
From  their  castle-walls  a  man  may  see 

The  mountains  far  away. 

38 


rHE     '     TEAR'S     •     Ar    •  THE     -     SPRING 

The  men  that  Hve  in  West  England 

They  see  the  Severn  strong, 
A-rolling  on  rough  water  brown 

Light  aspen  leaves  along. 
They  have  the  secret  of  the  Rocks, 

And  the  oldest  kind  of  song. 

But  the  men  that  live  in  the  South  Country 

Are  the  kindest  and  most  wise. 
They  get  their  laughter  from  the  loud  surf, 

And  the  faith  in  their  happy  eyes 
Comes  surely  from  our  Sister  the  Spring 

When  over  the  sea  she  flies  ; 
The  violets  suddenly  bloom  at  her  feet, 

She  blesses  us  with  surprise. 

I  never  get  between  the  pines 

But  I  smell  the  Sussex  air  ; 
Nor  I  never  come  on  a  belt  of  sand 

But  my  home  is  there. 
And  along  the  sky  the  line  of  the  Downs 

So  noble  and  so  bare. 

A  lost  thing  could  I  never  find, 
Nor  a  broken  thing  mend  : 

39 


rHE     '     r  E  J  R'S    'AT    •     THE     •     SPRING 

And  I  fear  I  shall  be  all  alone 

When  I  get  towards  the  end. 
Who  will  be  there  to  comfort  me 

Or  who  will  be  my  friend  ? 

I  will  gather  and  carefully  make  my  friends 

Of  the  men  of  the  Sussex  Weald, 
They  watch  the  stars  from  silent  folds, 

They  stiffly  plough  the  field. 
By  them  and  the  God  of  the  South  Country 

My  poor  soul  shall  be  healed. 

If  I  ever  become  a  rich  man. 

Or  if  ever  I  grow  to  be  old, 
I  will  build  a  house  with  deep  thatch 

To  shelter  me  from  the  cold. 
And  there  shall  the  Sussex  songs  be  sung 

And  the  story  of  Sussex  told. 

I  will  hold  my  house  in  the  high  wood 

Within  a  walk  of  the  sea. 
And  the  men  that  were  boys  when  I  was  a  boy 

Shall  sit  and  drink  with  me. 

HILAIRE  BELLOC 


40 


'  AI.l.    I    A5K     IS    A    UINDV     DAY    \\H  II     lilt    Ullllt    CLOUDS    FLYING 


'THE     ■     r.EAR'S     ■     jr    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


Sea  Fever 

I  MUST  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  lonely 
sea  and  the  sky, 
And  all  I  ask  Is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to  steer 
her  by  ; 
And    the   wheel's    kick  and  the  wind's  song  and 

the  white  sail's  shaking, 
And  a  grey  mist  on  the  sea's  face,  and  a  grey  dawn 
breaking. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the  call  of  the 

running  tide 
Is  a  wild   call  and  a   clear  call  that  may  not  be 

denied  ; 
And  all  I  ask  Is  a  windy  day  with  the  white  clouds 

flying, 
And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume,  and  the 

sea-gulls  crying. 

I   must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  vagrant 
gipsy  life, 

41 


r  HE 


r E  AR'S 


AT 


THE 


S  P  R ING 


To  the  gull's  way  and  the  whale's  way  where  the 

•    wind's  like  a  whetted  knife  ; 

And  all  I   ask  is   a  merry  yarn  from  a  laughing 

fellow-rover, 

And  quiet  sleep  and  a  sweet  dream  when  the  long 

trick's  over. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD 


42 


rWE     ■     YEAR'S     ■     Ar    •     THE     ■     SPRING 


Tewkesbury  Road 

IT  is  good  to  be  out  on  the  road,  and  going  one 
knows  not  where, 
Going  through  meadow  and  village,  one  knows 
not  whither  nor  why  ; 
Through  the  grey  light  drift  of  the  dust,  in  the  keen 

cool  rush  of  the  air, 
Under  the  flying  white  clouds,  and  the  broad  blue 
lift  of  the  sky. 


And  to  halt  at  the  chattering  brook,  in  the  tall  green 

fern  at  the  brink 
Where  the  harebell  grows,  and  the  gorse,  and  the 

foxgloves  purple  and  white  ; 
Where  the  shy-eyed  delicate  deer  come  down  in  a 

troop  to  drink 
When  the  stars  are  mellow  and  large  at  the  coming 

on  of  the  night. 

O,  to  feel  the  beat  of  the  rain,  and  the  homely  smell 
of  the  earth, 

43 


THE 


r  E  AR'S 


AT 


THE 


SPRING 


Is  a  tune  for  the  blood  to  jig  to,  a  joy  past  power 

of  words  ; 
And  the  blessed  green   comely   meadows    are  all 

a-ripple  with  mirth 

At  the  noise  of  the  lambs  at  play  and  the  dear  wild 

cry  of  the  birds. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD 


44 


THE     •     YEAR'S     •  AT    •     THE     •  SPRING 


The  West  Wind 

IT'S  a  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full  of  birds 
cries  ; 
I  never  hear  the  west  wind  but  tears  are  in  my  eyes. 
For  it  comes  from  the  west  lands,  the  old  brown 
hills, 
And  April's  in  the  west  wind,  and  daffodils. 

It's  a  fine  land,  the  west  land,  for  hearts  as  tired  as 

mine, 
Apple  orchards  blossom  there,  and  the   air's  like 

wine. 
There  is  cool  green  grass  there,  where  men  may  lie 

at  rest. 
And  the  thrushes  are  in  song  there,  fluting  from  the 

nest. 

"  Will  you  not  come    home,  brother  ?     You    have 

been  long  away. 
It's  April,  and  blossom  time,  and  white  is  the  spray  : 
And  bright  is  the  sun,  brother,  and  warm  is  the  rain. 
Will  you  not  come  home,  brother,  home  to  us  again  ? 

45 


THE     •     TEAR'S     •     AT    -     r  H  E     •     SPRING 

The  young  corn  is  green,  brother,  where  the  rabbits " 

run  ; 
It's  blue  sky,  and  white  clouds,  and  warm  rain  and 

sun. 
It's  song  to  a  man's  soul,  brother,  fire  to  a  man's 

brain, 
To  hear  the  wild  bees  and  see  the   merry  spring 

again. 

Larks  are  singing  in  the  west,  brother,  above  the 

green  wheat, 
So  will  you  not  come  home,  brother,  and  rest  your 

tired  feet  ? 
I've  a  balm  for  bruised  hearts,  brother,  sleep   for 

aching  eyes," 
Says  the  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full  of  birds' 

cries. 

It's  the  white  road  westwards  is  the  road  I  must  tread 
To  the  green  grass,  the  cool    grass,  and    rest   for 

heart  and  head. 
To   the    violets   and   the   brown    brooks    and    the 

thrushes'  song 

In  the  fine  land,  the  west  land,  the  land  where  I 

belong. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD 

46 


THE    ■     TERR'S    ■     At    ■     THE     ■    SPRING 


A  Ballad  of  the  Captains 

WHERE  are  now  the  Captains 
Of  the  narrow  ships  of  old — 
Who  with  valiant  souls  went  seeking 
For  the  Fabled  Fleece  of  Gold  ; 
In  the  clouded  Dusk  of  Ages, 

In  the  Dawn  of  History, 
When  the  ringing  songs  of  Homer 
First  re-echoed  o'er  the  Sea  ? 

Oh,  the  Captains  lie  a-sleeping 
Where  great  iron  hulls  are  sweeping 

Out  of  Suez  in  their  pride  ; 
And  they  hear  not,  and  they  heed  not. 
And  they  know  not,  and  they  need  not 

In  their  deep  graves  far  and  wide. 


Where  are  now  the  Captains 

Who  went  blindly  through  the  Strait, 
With  a  tribute  to  Poseidon, 

A  libation  poured  to  Fate  ? 

47 


THE     '     YEAR'S     •  AT    ■     THE     •  SPRING 

They  were  heroes  giant-hearted, 
That  with  Terrors,  told  and  sung. 

Like  blindfolded  lions  grappled. 

When  the  World  was  strange  and  young. 

Oh,  the  Captains  brave  and  daring, 
With  their  grim  old  crews  are  faring 

Where  our  guiding  beacons  gleam  ; 
And  the  homeward  liners  o'er  them — 
All  the  charted  seas  before  them — 
Shall  not  wake  them  as  they  dream. 

Where  are  now  the  Captains 

From  bold  Nelson  back  to  Drake, 
Who  came  drumming  up  the  Channel, 

Haling  prizes  in  their  wake  ? 
Where  are  England's  fighting  Captains 

Who,  with  battle-flags  unfurled, 
Went  a-rieving  all  the  rievers 

O'er  the  waves  of  all  the  world  ? 

Oh,  these  Captains,  all  confiding 
In  the  strong  right  hand,  are  biding 

In  the  margins,  on  the  Main  ; 
They  are  shining  bright  in  story, 
They  are  sleeping  deep  in  glory, 

On  the  silken  lap  of  Fame. 
48 


THE     '     TEAR'S     •  At    -     THE     -     SPRING 

Where  are  now  the  Captains 

Who  regarded  not  the  tears 
Of  the  captured  Christian  maidens 

Carried,  weeping,  to  Algiers  ? 
Yes,  the  swarthy  Moorish  Captains, 

Storming  wildly  'cross  the  Bay, 
With  a  dead  hidalgro's  dausfhter 

As  a  dower  for  the  Dey  ? 


Oh,  those  cruel  Captains  never 
Shall  sweet  lovers  more  dissever, 

On  their  forays  as  they  roll ; 
Or  the  mad  Dons  curse  them  vainly, 
As  their  baffled  ships,  ungainly. 

Heel  them,  jeering,  to  the  Mole. 

Where  are  now  the  Captains 

Of  those  racing,  roaring  days. 
Who  of  knowledge  and  of  courage. 

Drove  the  clippers  on  their  ways — 
To  the  furthest  ounce  of  pressure. 

To  the  latest  stitch  of  sail, 
*  Carried  on '  before  the  tempest 

Till  the  waters  lapped  the  rail  ? 

D  49 


THE     •  YEAR'S     •  AT    •     THE     ■     SPRING 


Oh,  the  merry,  manly  skippers 
Of  the  traders  and  the  chppers, 

They  are  sleeping  East  and  West, 
And  the  brave  blue  seas  shall  hold  them. 
And  the  oceans  five  enfold  them 

In  the  havens  where  they  rest. 

Where  are  now  the  Captains 

Of  the  gallant  days  agone  ? 
They  are  biding  in  their  places. 

And  the  Great  Deep  bears  no  traces 
Of  their  good  ships  passed  and  gone. 

They  are  biding  in  their  places, 
Where  the  light  of  God's  own  grace  is, 

And  the  Great  Deep  thunders  on. 

Yea,  with  never  port  to  steer  for, 
And  with  never  storm  to  fear  for, 

They  are  waiting  wan  and  white, 
And  they  hear  no  more  the  calling 
Of  the  watches,  or  the  falling 

Of  the  sea  rain  in  the  night. 

E.  J.  BRADY 


50 


'  DBMISILKEIJ,    IlAKKHAIKliU    MUSICIANS 


5> 


THE     ■     TERR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


Arabia 


'AR  are  the  shades  of  Arabia, 

Where  the  Princes  ride  at  noon, 
'Mid  the  verdurous  vales  and  thickets, 
Under  the  ghost  of  the  moon  ; 
And  so  dark  is  that  vaulted  purple 

Flowers  in  the  forest  rise 
And  toss  into  blossom  gainst  the  phantom  stars 
Pale  in  the  noonday  skies. 

Sweet  is  the  music  of  Arabia 

In  my  heart,  when  out  of  dreams 
I  still  in  the  thin  clear  mirk  of  dawn 

Descry  her  gliding  streams  ; 
Hear  her  strange  lutes  on  the  green  banks 

Ring  loud  with  the  grief  and  delight 
Of  the  demi-silked,  dark-haired  Musicians 

In  the  brooding  silence  of  night. 

They  haunt  me — her  lutes  and  her  forests ; 

No  beauty  on  earth  I  see 
But  shadowed  with  that  dream  recalls 

Her  loveliness  to  me  : 

51 


THE 


Y  E  A  R'S 


Ar 


THE 


S  P  R  I NG 


Still  eyes  look  coldly  upon  me, 
Cold  voices  whisper  and  say — 

"  He  Is  crazed  with  the  spell  of  far  Arabia, 
They  have  stolen  his  wits  away." 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 


52 


THE     •  TEJR'S     '     AT    ■     THE     •  SPRING 


Full  Moon 

ONE  night  as  Dick  lay  half  asleep, 
Into  his  drowsy  eyes 
A  great  still  light  began  to  creep 
From  out  the  silent  skies. 
It  was  the  lovely  moon's,  for  when 

He  raised  his  dreamy  head. 
Her  rays  of  silver  filled  the  pane 
And  streamed  across  his  bed. 
So,  for  awhile,  each  gazed  at  each — 

Dick  and  the  solemn  moon — 
Till,  climbing  slowly  on  her  way. 
She  vanished,  and  was  gone. 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 


53 


rHE     •     TEAR'S     '     AT    •  THE     •  SPRING 


Nod 

OFTLY  along  the  road  of  evening, 

In  a  twilight  dim  with  rose, 
Wrinkled  with  age,  and  drenched  with  dew, 

Old  Nod,  the  shepherd,  goes. 

His  drowsy  flock  streams  on  before  him, 

Their  fleeces  charged  with  gold, 
To  where  the  sun's  last  beam  leans  low 

On  Nod  the  shepherd's  fold. 

The  hedge  is  quick  and  green  with  briar, 
From  their  sand  the  conies  creep  ; 

And  all  the  birds  that  fly  in  heaven 
Flock  singing  home  to  sleep. 

His  lambs  outnumber  a  noon's  roses. 

Yet,  when  night's  shadows  fall. 
His  blind  old  sheep-dog,  Slumber-soon, 

Misses  not  one  of  all. 

54 


THE 


TEAR'S     •     AT 


THE     '     SPRING 


His  are  the  quiet  steeps  of  dreamland, 

The  waters  of  no-more-pain, 
His  ram's  bell  rings  'neath  an  arch  of  stars, 

"  Rest,  rest,  and  rest  again." 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 


55 


rHE     '     YEAR'S     '     AT    ■     THE     •  SPRING 

The  Song  of  the  Mad 

Prince 

WHO  said,  "Peacock  Pie"? 
The  old  King  to  the  sparrow  : 
Who  said,  "  Crops  are  ripe  "  ? 
Rust  to  the  harrow  : 
Who  said,  "Where  sleeps  she  now? 

Where  rests  she  now  her  head, 
Bathed  in  eve's  loveliness  "  ? 
That's  what  I  said. 

Who  said,  "  Ay,  mum's  the  word  "  ? 

Sexton  to  willow : 
Who  said,  "  Green  dusk  for  dreams. 

Moss  for  a  pillow  "  ? 
Who  said,  "  All  Time's  delight 

Hath  she  for  narrow  bed  ; 
Life's  troubled  bubble  broken  "  ? 

That's  what  I  said. 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 

56 


THE     ■     TEAR'S     •  At    •  THE     •     SPRING 


A  Dead  Harvest 

IN  KENSINGTON  GARDENS 

ALONG  the  graceless  grass  of  town 
They  rake  the  rows  of  red  and  brown,- 
Dead  leaves,  unlike  the  rows  of  hay 
Delicate,  touched  with  gold  and  grey, 
Raked  long  ago  and  far  away. 

A  narrow  silence  in  the  park, 
Between  the  lights  a  narrow  dark. 
One  street  rolls  on  the  north  ;  and  one, 
Muffled,  upon  the  south  doth  run  ; 
Amid  the  mist  the  work  is  done. 

A  futile  crop  !  for  it  the  fire 
Smoulders,  and,  for  a  stack,  a  pyre. 
So  go  the  town's  lives  on  the  breeze. 
Even  as  the  sheddings  of  the  trees  ; 
Bosom  nor  barn  is  filled  with  these. 

ALICE  MEYNELL 

57 


THE     '     TERR'S     •     AT    •  THE     •     SPRING 


I 


November  Blue 

The  golden  tint  of  the  electric  lights  seems  to  give  a  complementary 

colour  to  the  air  in  the  early  evening.  „  .       , 

'  °  Jissay  on  London 

0  HEAVENLY  colour,  London  town 
Has  blurred  it  from  her  skies  ; 
And,  hooded  in  an  earthly  brown, 
Unheaven'd  the  city  lies. 
No  longer  standard-like  this  hue 

Above  the  broad  road  flies  ; 
Nor  does  the  narrow  street  the  blue 
Wear,  slender  pennon-wise. 

But  when  the  gold  and  silver  lamps 

Colour  the  London  dew, 
And,  misted  by  the  winter  damps. 

The  shops  shine  bright  anew — 
Blue  comes  to  earth,  it  walks  the  street. 

It  dyes  the  wide  air  through  ; 
A  mimic  sky  about  their  feet, 

The  throng  go  crowned  with  blue. 

ALICE  MEYNELL 
58 


THE    ■    VEER'S     ■    AT    ■     THE    ■    SPRING 


The  Shepherdess 

5 HE  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 
A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 
Her  flocks  are  thoughts.     She  keeps  them 
white  ; 
She  guards  them  from  the  steep  ; 
She  feeds  them  on  the  fragrant  height, 
And  folds  them  in  for  sleep. 

She  roams  maternal  hills  and  bright, 

Dark  valleys  safe  and  deep. 
Into  that  tender  breast  at  night 

The  chastest  stars  may  peep. 
She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 

She  holds  her  little  thoughts  in  sight. 

Though  gay  they  run  and  leap. 
She  is  so  circumspect  and  right ; 

She  has  her  soul  to  keep. 

She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 

ALICE  MEYNELL 

59 


rHE     '     TEAR'S     •  AT    •  THE     •  SPRING 


The  Dead 

BLOW  out,  you  bugles,  over  the  rich  Dead  ! 
There's  none  of  these  so  lonely  and  poor  of 
old, 
But,  dying,  has  made  us  rarer  gifts  than  gold. 
These  laid  the  world  away  ;  poured  out  the  red 
Sweet  wine  of  youth  ;  gave  up  the  years  to  be 
Of  work  and  joy,  and  that  unhoped  serene, 
That  men  call  age ;  and  those  who  would  have 
been, 
Their  sons,  they  gave,  their  immortality. 

Blow,    bugles,  blow !     They  brought    us,    for    our 
dearth. 

Holiness,  lacked  so  long,  and  Love,  and  Pain. 
Honour  has  come  back,  as  a  king,  to  earth. 

And  paid  his  subjects  with  a  royal  wage  ; 
And  Nobleness  walks  in  our  ways  again  ; 

And  we  have  come  into  our  heritage. 

RUPERT  BROOKE 


60 


THE     •  TEAR'S     •  AT    •  THE     •     SPRING 


The  Great  Lover 

[HAVE  been  so  great  a  lover :  filled  my  days 
So  proudly  with  the  splendour  of  Love's  praise, 
The  pain,  the  calm,  and  the  astonishment, 
Desire  illimitable,  and  still  content. 
And  all  dear  names  men  use,  to  cheat  despair, 
For  the  perplexed  and    viewless    streams    that 

bear 
Our  hearts  at  random  down  the  dark  of  life. 
Now,  ere  the  unthinking  silence  on  that  strife 
Steals  down,  I  would  cheat  drowsy  Death  so  far. 
My  night  shall  be  remembered  for  a  star 
That  outshone  all  the  suns  of  all  men's  days. 
Shall  I  not  crown  them  with  immortal  praise 
Whom   I   have  loved,  who  have  given    me,  dared 

with  me 
High  secrets,  and  in  darkness  knelt  to  see 
The  inenarrable  godhead  of  delight  ? 
Love  is  a  flame  ; — we  have  beaconed   the   world's 


night. 


A  city  : — and  we  have  built  it,  these  and  L 
An  emperor : — we  have  taught  the  world  to  die. 

6i 


THE     •  TEAR'S     •  AT    •     THE     •  SPRING 


So,  for  their  sakes  I  loved,  ere  I  go  hence, 

And  the  high  cause  of  Love's  magnificence. 

And  to  keep  loyalties  young,  I'll  write  those  names 

Golden  for  ever,  eagles,  crying  flames. 

And  set  them  as  a  banner,  that  men  may  know, 

To  dare  the  generations,  burn,  and  blow 

Out  on  the  wind  of  Time,  shining  and  streaming.  .  .  . 

These  I  have  loved  : 

White  plates  and  cups,  clean-gleaming. 
Ringed  with  blue  lines  ;  and  feathery,  faery  dust ; 
Wet  roofs,  beneath  the  lamp-light ;  the  strong  crust 
Of  friendly  bread  ;  and  many-tasting  food  ; 
Rainbows ;  and  the  blue  bitter  smoke  of  wood  ; 
And  radiant  raindrops  couching  in  cool  flowers  ; 
And  flowers  themselves,  that  sway  through  sunny 

hours, 
Dreaming  of  moths  that  drink  them  under  the  moon  ; 
Then,  the  cool  kindliness  of  sheets,  that  soon 
Smooth  away  trouble  ;  and  the  rough  male  kiss 
Of  blankets  ;  grainy  wood  ;  live  hair  that  is 
Shining  and  free  ;  blue-massing  clouds  ;  the  keen 
Unpassioned  beauty  of  a  great  machine  ; 
The  benison  of  hot  water  ;  furs  to  touch  ; 
The  Qfood  smell  of  old  clothes  ;  and  other  such — 
The  comfortable  smell  of  friendly  fingers. 
Hair's  fragrance,  and  the  musty  reek  that  lingers 

62 


THE     '    TEAR'S     •  AT    -     THE     •     SPRING 

About  dead  leaves  and  last  year's  ferns.   .  .  . 

Dear  names, 
And  thousand  other  throng  to  me !    Royal  flames; 
Sweet  water's  dimpling  laugh  from  tap  or  spring  ; 
Holes  in  the  ground  ;  and  voices  that  do  sing  ; 
Voices  in  laughter,  too  ;  and  body's  pain, 
Soon  turned  to  peace ;  and  the  deep-panting  train  ; 
Firm  sands  ;  the  little  dulling  edge  of  foam 
That  browns  and  dwindles  as  the  wave  goes  home  ; 
And  washen  stones,  gay  for  an  hour ;  the  cold 
Graveness  of  iron  ;  moist  black  earthen  mould  ; 
Sleep  ;  and  high  places  ;  footprints  in  the  dew ; 
And    oaks  ;    and    brown    horse  -  chestnuts,    glossy- 
new  ; — 
And    new  -  peeled    sticks ;    and    shining    pools    on 

grass ; — 
All  these  have  been  my  loves.     And  these  shall 

pass. 
Whatever  passes  not,  in  the  great  hour. 
Nor  all  my  passion,  all  my  prayers,  have  power 
To  hold  them  with  me  through  the  gate  of  Death. 
They'll  play  deserter,  turn  with  the  traitor  breath, 
Break  the  high  bond  we  made,  and  sell  Love's  trust 
And  sacramented  covenant  to  the  dust. 
— Oh,  never  a  doubt  but,  somewhere,  I  shall  wake. 
And  give  what's  left  of  love  again,  and  make 

63 


THE     •  TEAR'S     -     AT    •     THE     -     SPRING 

New  friends,  now  strangers.   .   .   . 

But  the  best  I've  known, 
Stays    here,    and    changes,   breaks,   grows    old,    is 

blown 
About   the   winds   of  the   world,   and  fades    from 

brains 
Of  living  men,  and  dies. 

Nothing  remains. 

O  dear  my  loves,  O  faithless,  once  again 
This  one  last  gift  I  give :  that  after  men 
Shall  know,  and  later  lovers,  far-removed. 
Praise  you,  "All  these  were   lovely";    say,   "He 
loved." 

RUPERT  BROOKE 


64 


'  MOIST    BLACK    tARTHEN     MOULD  ;    .     .    .     AND    HIGH     PLACES  ;     FOOTPRINTS    IN     THE    DEW 


6+ 


THE     ■     YEAR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


The  Soldier 


(F  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me  : 
That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England.     There  shall  be 
In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed  ; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware, 
Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to 
roam, 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air. 
Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 

A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 

Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England 
given  ; 
Her  sights  and  sounds  ;  dreams  happy  as  her  day  ; 

And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends  ;  and  gentleness, 

In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 

RUPERT  BROOKE 


65 


THE     ■     YEAR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


By  the  Statue  of  King 
Charles  at  Charing  Cross 

OMBRE  and  rich,  the  skies; 
Great  glooms,  and  starry  plains. 
Gently  the  night  wind  sighs ; 
Else  a  vast  silence  reiens. 


The  splendid  silence  clings 
Around  me  :  and  around 
The  saddest  of  all  kings 
Crowned,  and  again  discrowned. 

Comely  and  calm,  he  rides 
Hard  by  his  own  Whitehall : 
Only  the  night  wind  glides  : 
No  crowds,  nor  rebels,  brawl. 

Gone,  too,  his  Court ;  and  yet. 
The  stars  his  courtiers  are : 
Stars  in  their  stations  set  ; 
And  every  wandering  star. 

66 


THE     •     TEAR'S     ■     AT    •     THE     •  SPRING 


Alone  he  rides,  alone, 
The  fair  and  fatal  king  : 


'&> 


Dark  nio^ht  is  all  his  own, 


'& 


That  strange  and  solemn  thing. 


'£? 


Which  are  more  full  of  fate  : 
The  stars  ;  or  those  sad  eyes  ? 
Which  are  more  still  and  great : 
Those  brows  ;  or  the  dark  skies  ? 

Although  his  whole  heart  yearn 
In  passionate  tragedy: 
Never  was  face  so  stern 
With  sweet  austerity. 

Vanquished  in  life,  his  death 
By  beauty  made  amends  : 
The  passing  of  his  breath 
Won  his  defeated  ends. 

Brief  life  and  hapless  ?     Nay  : 
Through  death,  life  grew  sublime. 
Speak  after  sentence  ?     Yea  : 
And  to  the  end  of  time. 

Armoured  he  rides,  his  head 
Bare  to  the  stars  of  doom  : 

67 


THE     ■     TEAR'S     •  AT    •  THE     •  SPRING 


He  triumphs  now,  the  dead, 
Beholding  London's  gloom. 

Our  wearier  spirit  faints, 
Vexed  in  the  world's  employ 
His  soul  was  of  the  saints  ; 
And  art  to  him  was  joy. 

King,  tried  in  fires  of  woe  ! 
Men  hunger  for  thy  grace : 
And  through  the  night  I  go. 
Loving  thy  mournful  face. 


Yet  when  the  city  sleeps  ; 
When  all  the  cries  are  still : 
The  stars  and  heavenly  deeps 
Work  out  a  perfect  will. 


LIONEL  JOHNSON 


68 


rHE     '     TEAR'S     •     AT    ■     THE     •     SPRING 


Check 


HE  night  was  creeping  on  the  ground  ; 
She  crept  and  did  not  make  a  sound 
Until  she  reached  the  tree,  and  then 
She  covered  it,  and  stole  again 


Along  the  grass  beside  the  wall. 


I  heard  the  rustle  of  her  shawl 
As  she  threw  blackness  everywhere 
Upon  the  sky  and  ground  and  air, 
And  in  the  room  where  I  was  hid  : 
But  no  matter  what  she  did 
To  everything  that  was  without, 
She  could  not  put  my  candle  out. 

So  I  stared  at  the  night,  and  she 
Stared  back  solemnly  at  me. 


JAMES  STEPHENS 


69 


THE     ■     TERR'S     ■     Ar    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


When  the  Leaves  Fall 

WHEN  the  leaves  fall  off  the  trees 
Ever}^body  walks  on  them  : 
Once  they  had  a  time  of  ease 
High  above,  and  every  breeze 
Used  to  stay  and  talk  to  them. 

Then  they  were  so  debonair 

As  they  fluttered  up  and  down  ; 
Dancing  in  the  sunny  air, 
Dancing  without  knowing  there 
Was  a  gutter  in  the  town. 

Now  they  have  no  place  at  all ! 

All  the  home  that  they  can  find 
Is  a  gutter  by  a  wall, 
And  the  wind  that  waits  their  fall 

Is  an  apache  of  a  wind. 

JAMES  STEPHENS 


70 


THE     ■     r  E  J  R'S     ■     At    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


In  France 

HE  poplars  in  the  fields  of  France 
Are  golden  ladles  come  to  dance  ; 
But  yet  to  see  them  there  is  none 
But  I  and  the  September  sun. 

The  girl  who  in  their  shadow  sits 
Can  only  see  the  sock  she  knits  ; 
Her  dog  is  watching  all  the  day 
That  not  a  cow  shall  go  astray. 

The  leisurely  contented  cows 
Can  only  see  the  earth  they  browse  ; 
Their  piebald  bodies  through  the  grass 
With  busy,  munching  noses  pass. 

Alone  the  sun  and  I  behold 
Processions  crowned  with  shining  gold — 
The  poplars  in  the  fields  of  France, 
Like  glorious  ladies  come  to  dance. 

FRANCES  CORNFORD 
71 


THE     ■     TEAR'S     ■     At    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


The  Ragwort 

THE  thistles  on  the  sandy  flats 
Are  courtiers  with  crimson  hats  ; 
The  ragworts,  growing  up  so  straight, 
Are  emperors  who  stand  In  state, 
And  march  about,  so  proud  and  bold, 
In  crowns  of  fairy-story  gold. 

The  people  passing  home  at  night 
Rejoice  to  see  the  shining  sight, 
They  quite  forget  the  sands  and  sea 
Which  are  as  grey  as  grey  can  be, 
Nor  ever  heed  the  gulls  who  cry 
Like  peevish  children  In  the  sky. 

FRANCES  CORNFORD 


72 


THE    ■     rEJR'S    ■    AT    ■     THE    ■    SPRING 


Lone  Dog 


'Ma  lean  dog,  a  keen  clog,  a  wild  dog,  and  lone  ; 
I'm  a  rough  dog,  a  tough  dog,  hunting  on  my  own  ; 
I'm  a  bad  dog,  a  mad  dog,  teasing  silly  sheep ; 
I  love  to  sit  and  bay  the  moon,  to  keep  fat  souls 
from  sleep. 

I'll  never  be  a  lap  dog,  licking  dirty  feet, 
A  sleek  dog,  a  meek  dog,  cringing  for  my  meat, 
Not  for  me  the  fireside,  the  well-filled  plate, 
But  shut  door,  and  sharp  stone,  and  cuff,  and  kick, 
and  hate. 

Not  for  me  the  other  dogs,  running  by  my  side. 
Some  have  run  a  short    while,  but  none  of  them 

would  bide. 
O  mine  is  still  the  lone  trail,  the  hard  trail,  the  best, 
Wide  wind,  and  wild  stars,  and  the  hunger  of  the 

quest ! 

IRENE  R.  McLEOD 


73 


THE 


TEAR'S     ■     AT 


THE 


SPRING 


If  I  had  a  Broomstick 

IF  I  had  a  broomstick,  and  knew  how  to  ride  it, 
I'd  fly  through  the  windows  when  Jane  goes  to  tea, 
And  over  the  tops  of  the  chimneys  I'd  guide  it. 
To  lands  where  no  children  are  cripples  like  me  ; 
I'd  run  on  the  rocks  with  the  crabs  and  the  sea. 
Where  soft  red  anemones  close  when  you  touch  ; 
If  I  had  a  broomstick,  and  knew  how  to  ride  it, 
If  I  had  a  broomstick — instead  of  a  crutch  ! 

PATRICK  R.  CHALMERS 


74 


THE    ■    YEAR'S     ■     AT    ■    THE     ■    SPRING 


Roundabouts  and  Swings 

IT  was  early  last  September  nigh  to  Framlin'am- 
on-Sea, 
An'  'twas  Fair-day  come  to-morrow,  an'  the  time 
was  after  tea, 
An'    I    met    a    painted    caravan    adown    a   dusty 

lane, 
A  Pharaoh  with  his  waggons  comin'  jolt  an'  creak 

an'  strain  ; 
A    cheery    cove    an'    sunburnt,    bold    o'  eye    and 

wrinkled  up. 
An'  beside  him  on  the  splashboard  sat  a  brindled 

tarrier  pup, 
An'  a  lurcher  wise  as  Solomon  an'  lean  as  fiddle- 


strmgs 


Was  joggin'  in  the  dust  along  'is  roundabouts  and 


swmgs. 


**  Goo'-day,"  said  'e  ;  *'  Goo'-day,"  said  I  ;  *'an'  'ow 

d'you  find  things  go, 
An'  what's  the  chance  o'  millions  when  you  runs  a 

travellin'  show  ?  " 


75 


rHE     '    TEAR'S     '    AT    •     THE     •  SPRING 


"  I   find,"  said  'e,  *'  things  very  much  as    ow   I've 
always  found, 

For  mostly  they  goes  up  and   down  or  else  goes 
round  and  round." 

Said  'e,   "  The  job's  the  very  spit  o'  what  it  always 
were, 

It's  bread  and  bacon  mostly  when  the  dog  don't 
catch  a  'are  ; 

But  lookin'  at  it  broad,  an'  while  it  ain't  no  mer- 
chant king's. 

What's  lost  upon  the  roundabouts  we  pulls  up  on 
the  swings  ! 


"  Goo'  luck,"  said  'e  ;  "  Goo'  luck,"  said  I  ;  "you've 
put  it  past  a  doubt ; 

An'  keep  that  lurcher  on  the  road,  the  gamekeepers 
is  out"; 

'E  thumped  upon  the  footboard  an'  'e  lumbered  on 
again 

To  meet  a  gold-dust  sunset  down  the  owl-light  in 
the  lane  ; 

An'  the  moon  she  climbed  the  'azels,  while  a  night- 
jar seemed  to  spin 

That    Pharaoh's    wisdom    o'er   again,   'is    sooth    of 
lose-and-win  ; 

76 


THE 


r  E  A  R'S 


A r  '   r HE 


S  P  R ING 


For   **up  an'  down   an'  round,"  said  'e,  "goes  all 

appointed  things, 
An'   losses  on   the   roundabouts    means  profits  on 


the  swings  ! " 


PATRICK  R.  CHALMERS 


77 


THE     ■     YEAR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


A  Town  Window 


EYOND  my  window  in  the  night 
Is  but  a  drab  inglorious  street, 
Yet  there  the  frost  and  clean  starlight 
As  over  Warwick  woods  are  sweet. 


Under  the  grey  drift  of  the  town 
The  crocus  works  among  the  mould 
As  eagerly  as  those  that  crown 
The  Warwick  spring  in  flame  and  gold. 

And  when  the  tramway  down  the  hill 
Across  the  cobbles  moans  and  rings, 
There  is  about  my  window-sill 
The  tumult  of  a  thousand  wings. 

JOHN  DRINKWATER 


78 


THE    ■    YEJR'S    ■    Jf    ■     THE    ■    SPRING 


Brumana 

OH  shall  I  never  never  be  home  again  ? 
Meadows  of  England  shining  in  the  rain 
Spread  wide  your  daisied  lawns :  your  ramparts 
green 
With  briar  fortify,  with  blossom  screen 
Till  my  far  morning — and  O  streams  that  slow 
And  pure  and  deep  through  plains  and  playlands  go, 
For  me  your  love  and  all  your  kingcups  store, 
And — dark  militia  of  the  southern  shore. 
Old  fragrant  friends — preserve  me  the  last  lines 
Of  that  long  saga  which  you  sung  me,  pines, 
When,  lonely  boy,  beneath  the  chosen  tree 
I  listened,  with  my  eyes  upon  the  sea. 

[Continued] 
JAMES  ELROY  FLECKER 


79 


THE     •  TEAR'S     ■     AT    •     THE     •  SPRING 


The  Dying  Patriot 


AY  breaks  on  England  down  the  Kentish  hills, 
Sinorins:  in  the  silence  of  the  meadow-footinof 


Drills, 
Day  of  my  dreams,  O  day  ! 
I  saw  them  march  from  Dover,  long  ago, 
With  a  silver  cross  before  them,  singing  low, 
Monks  of  Rome  from  their  home  where  the  blue 
seas  break  in  foam, 
Augustine  with  his  feet  of  snow. 


*&' 


Noon  strikes  on  England,  noon  on  Oxford  town, 
— Beauty  she  was  statue  cold — there's  blood  upon 

her  gown  : 
Noon  of  my  dreams,  O  noon  ! 

Proud    and    godly   kings    had    built    her,    long 

ago. 
With    her    towers    and    tombs   and    statues   all 
arow, 
With  her  fair  and  floral  air  and  the  love  that  lingers 
there, 
And  the  streets  where  the  great  men  go. 

80 


THE     •     TEAR'S     -AT     -     THE     •     SPRING 


Evening  on  the  olden,  the  golden  sea  of  Wales, 

When  the  first  star  shivers  and  the  last  wave  pales  : 

O  evening  dreams  ! 

There's  a  house  that  Britons  walked  in,  long  ago. 
Where  now  the  springs  of  ocean  fall  and  flow, 

And  the  dead  robed  in  red  and  sea-lilies  overhead 
Sway  when  the  long  winds  blow. 

Sleep  not,  my  country :  though  night  is  here,  afar 
Your  children  of  the  morning  are  clamorous  for  war  : 
Fire  in  the  night,  O  dreams  ! 

Though  she  send  you  as  she  sent  you,  long  ago, 
South  to  desert,  east  to  ocean,  west  to  snow. 
West  of  these  out  to  seas  colder  than  the  Hebrides 
I  must  go 
Where  the  fleet  of  stars  is  anchored  and  the  young 
Star-captains  glow. 

JAMES  ELROY  FLECKER 


8i 


THE     •     FEAR'S     '     Ar    •  THE     •  SPRING 


N 


November  Eves 

"OVEMBER  Evenings  !     Damp  and  still 
They  used  to  cloak  Leckhampton  hill, 
And  lie  down  close  on  the  grey  plain, 

JL    1  And  dim  the  dripping  window-pane, 

And  send  queer  winds  like  Harlequins 

That  seized  our  elms  for  violins 

And  struck  a  note  so  sharp  and  low 

Even  a  child  could  feel  the  woe. 

Now  fire  chased  shadow  round  the  room ; 

Tables  and  chairs  grew  vast  in  gloom  : 

We  crept  about  like  mice,  while  Nurse 

Sat  mending,  solemn  as  a  hearse, 

And  even  our  unlearned  eyes 

Half  closed  with  choking  memories. 

Is  it  the  mist  or  the  dead  leaves, 

Or  the  dead  men —     November  eves  ? 

JAMES  ELROY  FLECKER 


82 


rUE     ■     TEAR'S     •  AT    •  THE     •     SPRING 


Star-Talk 

ARE  you  awake,  Gemelli, 
This  frosty  night  ?  " 
"  We'll  be  awake  till  reveilld, 
Which  is  Sunrise,"  say  the  Gemelli, 
'*  It's  no  good  trying  to  go  to  sleep  : 
If  there's  wine  to  be  got  we'll  drink  it  deep. 
But  rest  is  hopeless  to-night. 
But  rest  is  hopeless  to-night." 

"  Are  you  cold  too,  poor  Pleiads, 

This  frosty  night  ?  " 
"Yes,  and  so  are  the  Hyads  : 
See  us  cuddle  and  hug,"  say  the  Pleiads, 
"  All  six  in  a  ring  :  it  keeps  us  warm  : 
We  huddle  together  like  birds  in  a  storm  : 

It's  bitter  weather  to-night, 

It's  bitter  weather  to-night." 

''What  do  you  hunt,  Orion, 

This  starry  night  ?  " 
"  The  Ram,  the  Bull  and  the  Lion, 
And  the  Great  Bear,"  says  Orion, 

83 


THE     '     TERR'S     '     Ar    •  THE     -     SPRING 

"With  my  starry  quiver  and  beautiful  belt 
I  am  trying  to  find  a  good  thick  pelt 
To  warm  my  shoulders  to-night, 
To  warm  my  shoulders  to-night." 

"  Did  you  hear  that,  Great  She-bear, 

This  frosty  night  ?  " 
"  Yes,  he's  talking  of  stripping  7;ie  bare, 
Of  my  own  big  fur,"  says  the  She-bear. 
"I'm  afraid  of  the  man  and  his  terrible  arrow  : 
The  thought  of  it  chills  my  bones  to  the  marrow, 

And  the  frost  so  cruel  to-night ! 

And  the  frost  so  cruel  to-night ! " 

"  How  is  your  trade,  Aquarius, 

This  frosty  night  ?  " 
"  Complaints  is  many  and  various. 
And  my  feet  are  cold,"  says  Aquarius, 
"  There's  Venus  objects  to  Dolphin-scales, 
And  Mars  to  Crab-spawn  found  in  my  pails, 
And  the  pump  has  frozen  to-night. 
And  the  pump  has  frozen  to-night." 

ROBERT  GRAVES 


84 


7HE    ■    YEAR'S    ■    AT    ■     THE    ■    SPRING 


The  Kingfisher 

IT  was  the  Rainbow  gave  thee  birth, 
And  left  thee  all  her  lovely  hues  ; 
And,  as  her  mother's  name  was  Tears, 
So  runs  it  in  thy  blood  to  choose 
For  haunts  the  lonely  pools,  and  keep 
In  company  with  trees  that  weep. 

Go  you  and,  with  such  glorious  hues, 

Live  with  proud  Peacocks  in  green  parks  ; 

On  lawns  as  smooth  as  shining  glass. 
Let  every  feather  show  its  mark  ; 

Get  thee  on  boughs  and  clap  thy  wings 

Before  the  windows  of  proud  kings. 

Nay,  lovely  Bird,  thou  art  not  vain  ; 

Thou  hast  no  proud  ambitious  mind  ; 
I  also  love  a  quiet  place 

That's  green,  away  from  all  mankind  ; 
A  lonely  pool,  and  let  a  tree 
Sigh  with  her  bosom  over  me. 

WILLIAM  H.  DAVIES 
85 


THE     ■     TERR'S     ■     AT         THE     ■     SPRING 


Sheep 


HEN  I  was  once  in  Baltimore 
A  man  came  up  to  me  and  cried, 

**  Come,  I  have  eighteen  hundred  sheep, 
And  we  will  sail  on  Tuesday's  tide. 


"  If  you  will  sail  with  me,  young  man, 
I'll  pay  you  fifty  shillings  down  ; 

These  eighteen  hundred  sheep  I  take 
From  Baltimore  to  Glasgow  town." 


He  paid  me  fifty  shillings  down, 

I  sailed  with  eighteen  hundred  sheep  ; 

We  soon  had  cleared  the  harbour's  mouth. 
We  soon  were  in  the  salt  sea  deep. 

The  first  night  we  were  out  at  sea 

Those  sheep  were  quiet  in  their  mind  ; 

The  second  night  they  cried  with  fear — 
They  smelt  no  pastures  in  the  wind. 

86 


r  HE 


r  E  A  R'S 


AT 


THE 


S  P  R  I NG 


They  sniffed,  poor  things,  for  their  green  fields, 
They  cried  so  loud  I  could  not  sleep  : 

For  fifty  thousand  shillings  down 
I  would  not  sail  again  with  sheep. 

WILLIAM  H.  DAVIES 


87 


THE     ■     YEAR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


Home  Thoughts  in 
Laventie 

GREEN  gardens  in  Laventie  ! 
Soldiers  only  know  the  street 
Where  the  mud  is  churned  and 
splashed  about 
By  battle-wending  feet ; 
And  yet  beside  one  stricken  house  there  is  a  glimpse 
of  grass, 
Look  for  it  when  you  pass. 

Beyond  the  Church  whose  pitted  spire 

Seems  balanced  on  a  strand 
Of  swaying  stone  and  tottering  brick 
Two  roofless  rums  stand, 
And  here  behind  the  wreckage  where  the  back-wall 
should  have  been 
We  found  a  garden  green. 

The  grass  was  never  trodden  on. 
The  little  path  of  gravel 

88 


THE     •  TEAR'S     •  Ar    •  THE     -     SPRING 

Was  overgrown  with  celandine, 
No  other  folk  did  travel 
Along  its  weedy  surface,  but  the  nimble -footed 
mouse 
Running  from  house  to  house. 

So  all  among  the  vivid  blades 

Of  soft  and  tender  grass 
We  lay,  nor  heard  the  limber  wheels 
That  pass  and  ever  pass, 
In  noisy  continuity,  until  their  stony  rattle 
Seems  in  itself  a  battle. 

At  length  we  rose  up  from  our  ease 

Of  tranquil  happy  mind, 
And  searched  the  crarden's  little  length 
A  fresh  pleasaunce  to  find  ; 
And  there,  some  yellow  daffodils  and  jasmine  hanging 

Did  rest  the  tired  eye. 

The  fairest  and  most  fras^rant 

Of  the  many  sweets  we  found. 
Was  a  little  bush  of  Daphne  flower 

Upon  a  grassy  mound, 

89 


THE     •  TEAR'S     •  AT    •     THE     •  SPRING 

And  so  thick  were  the  blossoms  set,  and  so  divine 
the  scent, 
That  we  were  well  content. 

Hungry  for  Spring  I  bent  my  head, 

The  perfume  fanned  my  face. 
And  all  my  soul  was  dancing 
In  that  lovely  little  place. 
Dancing  with  a  measured  step  from  wrecked  and 
shattered  towns 
Away  .   .  .  upon  the  Downs. 

I  saw  green  banks  of  daffodil. 

Slim  poplars  in  the  breeze. 
Great  tan-brown  hares  in  gusty  March 
A-courting  on  the  leas  ; 
And  meadows  with  their  glittering  streams,  and  silver 
scurrying  dace, 
Home — what  a  perfect  place  ! 

EDWARD  WYNDHAM  TENNANT 


90 


THE     ■     rSJR'S     ■     JT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


Into  Battle 


'HE  naked  earth  Is  warm  with  Spring, 


And  with  green  grass  and  bursting;  trees 


T 

I    Leans  to  the  sun  s  gaze  glorying 
Jl        And  quivers  in  the  sunny  breeze  ; 
And  Life  is  Colour  and  Warmth  and  Light, 

And  a  strivinor  evermore  for  these  ; 
And  he  is  dead  who  will  not  fight ; 

And  who  dies  fighting  has  increase. 


The  figrhtine  man  shall  from  the  sun 

Take  warmth,  and  life  from  the  glowing  earth  ; 

Speed  with  the  light-foot  winds  to  run, 
And  with  the  trees  to  newer  birth  ; 

And  find,  when  fighting  shall  be  done, 
Great  rest,  and  fullness  after  dearth. 


All  the  bright  company  of  Heaven 
Hold  him  in  their  high  comradeship, 

The  Dog-star  and  the  Sisters  Seven, 
Orion's  Belt  and  sworded  hip. 

91 


7HE     ■     TERR'S     '     AT    ■     THE     •  SPRING 

The  woodland  trees  that  stand  together, 
They  stand  to  him  each  one  a  friend, 

They  gently  speak  in  the  windy  weather  ; 
They  guide  to  valley  and  ridges'  end. 

The  kestrel  hovering  by  day, 

And  the  little  owls  that  call  by  night. 

Bid  him  be  swift  and  keen  as  they, 
As  keen  of  ear,  as  swift  of  sight. 

The  blackbird  sings  to  him,  "  Brother,  brother, 
If  this  be  the  last  song  you  shall  sing 

Sing  well,  for  you  may  not  sing  another  ; 
Brother,  sing." 


In  dreary,  doubtful,  waiting  hours. 
Before  the  brazen  frenzy  starts. 

The  horses  show  him  nobler  powers  ; 
O  patient  eyes,  courageous  hearts  ! 

And  when  the  burning  moment  breaks. 
And  all  things  else  are  out  of  mind. 

And  only  Joy  of  Battle  takes 

Him  by  the  throat,  and  makes  him  blind- 

92 


THE     .    TEAR'S     •     AT 


THE 


S  F  R ING 


Though  joy  and  bHndness  he  shall  know, 
Not  caring  much  to  know,  that  still. 

Nor  lead  nor  steel  shall  reach  him,  so 
That  it  be  not  the  Destined  Will. 

The  thundering  line  of  battle  stands. 
And  in  the  air  Death  moans  and  sings  ; 

But  Day  shall  clasp  him  with  strong  hands. 
And  Night  shall  fold  hmi  in  soft  wings. 

JULIAN  GRENFELL 


93 


THE     •     r  E  J  R'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


Overheard  on  a 
Saltmarsh 

YMPH,  nymph,  what  are  your  beads  ? 
Green  glass,  gobhn.     Why  do  you  stare 

at  them  ? 
Give  them  me. 

No. 
Give  them  me.     Give  them  me. 

No. 

Then  I  will  howl  all  night  in  the  reeds, 
Lie  in  the  mud  and  howl  for  them. 

Goblin,  why  do  you  love  them  so  ? 

They  are  better  than  stars  or  water. 
Better  than  voices  of  winds  that  sing, 
Better  than  any  man's  fair  daughter. 
Your  trreen  f^lass  beads  on  a  silver  ring-. 

Hush,  I  stole  them  out  of  the  moon. 

94 


THE 


r  E  A  R'S 


A r    '     THE 


S  P  R ING 


Give  me  your  beads.      I  desire  them. 

No. 

I  will  howl  in  a  deep  lagoon 

For  your  green  glass  beads,  I  love  them  so. 

Give  them  me.      Give  them. 


No. 


HAROLD  MONRO 


95 


THE 


r  E  AR'S 


AT 


THE     •     SPRING 


A  Flower  is  Looking 
through  the  Ground 


FLOWER  is  looking  through  the  ground, 
BHnking  at  the  April  weather  ; 
Now  a  child  has  seen  the  flower : 
Now  they  go  and  play  together. 


Now  it  seems  the  flower  will  speak, 
And  will  call  the  child  its  brother — 
But,  oh  strange  forgetfulness  ! — 
They  don't  recognize  each  other. 

HAROLD  MONRO 


96 


rHE     ■     VEER'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


Man  Carrying  Bale 

THE  tough  hand  closes  gently  on  the  load  ; 
Out  of  the  mind,  a  voice 
Calls  '  Lift ! '  and  the  arms,  remembering  well 
their  work, 
Lengthen  and  pause  for  help. 
Then  a  slow  ripple  flows  from  head  to  foot 
While  all  the  muscles  call  to  one  another  : 
'  Lift ! '  and  the  bulging  bale 
Floats  like  a  butterfly  in  June. 

So  moved  the  earliest  carrier  of  bales. 

And  the  same  watchful  sun 
Glowed  through  his  body  feeding  it  with  light. 

So  will  the  last  one  move, 
And  halt,  and  dip  his  head,  and  lay  his  load 
Down,  and  the  muscles  will  relax  and  tremble. 

Earth,  you  designed  your  man 
Beautiful  both  in  labour  and  repose. 

HAROLD  MONRO 


97 


THE     ■     YEAR'S     ■     JT    ■     THE     ■     SFRING 


The  Cherry  Trees 

THE  cherry  trees  bend  over  and  are  shedding 
On  the  old  road  where  all  that  passed  are  dead, 
Their    petals,    strewing   the    grass    as  for  a 
wedding 
This  early  May  morn  when  there  is  none  to  wed. 

EDWARD  THOMAS 


98 


rHE     '     TEAR'S     •  AT    •  THE     ■     SPRING 


The  Bells  of  Heaven 

'T'WOULD  ring  the  bells  of  Heaven 
The  wildest  peal  for  years, 
If  Parson  lost  his  senses 
And  people  came  to  theirs, 

And  he  and  they  together 

Knelt  down  with  angry  prayers 

For  tamed  and  shabby  tigers 

And  dancing  dogs  and  bears, 

And  wretched,  blind  pit  ponies, 

And  little  hunted  hares. 

RALPH  HODGSON 


99 


THE     •     TEAR'S     ■     AT    •  THE     ■     SPRING 


The  Song  of  Honour 

I  CLIMBED  a  hill  as  light  fell  short, 
And  rooks  came  home  in  scramble  sort, 
And  filled  the  trees  and  flapped  and  fought 
And  sang  themselves  to  sleep  ; 
An  owl  from  nowhere  with  no  sound 
Swung  by  and  soon  was  nowhere  found, 
I  heard  him  calling  half-way  round, 

Holloing  loud  and  deep  ; 
A  pair  of  stars,  faint  pins  of  light, 
Then  many  a  star,  sailed  into  sight, 
And  all  the  stars,  the  flower  of  night. 

Were  round  me  at  a  leap  ; 
To  tell  how  still  the  valleys  lay 
I  heard  a  watch-dog  miles  away. 
And  bells  of  distant  sheep. 

I  heard  no  more  of  bird  or  bell, 
The  mastiff  in  a  slumber  fell, 

I  stared  into  the  sky. 
As  wondering  men  have  always  done 
Since  beauty  and  the  stars  were  one, 

Though  none  so  hard  as  I. 

lOO 


rHE     •  TEAR'S     '     AT    •     THE     •     SPRING 


It  seemed,  so  still  the  valleys  were, 
As  if  the  whole  world  knelt  at  prayer, 

Save  me  and  me  alone  ; 
So  pure  and  wide  that  silence  was 
I  feared  to  bend  a  blade  of  grass, 

And  there  I  stood  like  stone. 

\^Co}itinued'\ 
RALPH  HODGSON 


lOI 


THE     ■     YEAR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


Stupidity  Street 

1SAW  with  open  eyes 
Singing  birds  sweet 
Sold  in  the  shops 
For  the  people  to  eat, 
Sold  in  the  shops  of 
Stupidity  Street. 

I  saw  in  vision 
The  worm  in  the  wheat, 
And  in  the  shops  nothing 
For  people  to  eat ; 
Nothing  for  sale  in 
Stupidity  Street. 

RALPH  HODGSON 


102 


THE     •     TEAR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     •  SPRING 


To  the  Coming  Spring 

0  PUNCTUAL  Spring  ! 
We  had  forgotten  in  this  winter  town 
The  days  of  Summer  and  the  long,  long  eves. 
But  now  you  come  on  airy  wing, 
With  busy  fingers  spilling  baby-leaves 
On  all  the  bushes,  and  a  faint  green  down 
On  ancient  trees,  and  everywhere 
Your  warm  breath  soft  with  kisses 
Stirs  the  wintry  air, 
And  waking  us  to  unimagined  blisses. 
Your  lightest  footprints  in  the  grass 
Are  marked  by  painted  crocus-flowers 
And  heavy-headed  daffodils, 
While  little  trees  blush  faintly  as  you  pass. 
The  morning  and  the  night 
You  bathe  with  heavenly  showers. 
And  scatter  scentless  violets  on  the  rounded 

hills. 
Drop  beneath  leafless  woods  pale  primrose  posies. 
With  magic  key,  in  the  new  evening  light, 
You  are  unlocking  buds  that  keep  the  roses  ; 

103 


rHE     •  YEAR'S     '     Ar    -     THE     ■     SPRING 

The  purple  lilac  soon  will  blow  above  the  wall 
And  bended  boughs  in  orchards  whitely  bloom — 
We  had  forgotten  in  the  Winter's  gloom  .   .  . 
Soon  we  shall  hear  the  cuckoo  call ! 

MARGARET  MACKENZIE 


104 


THE     •  TEAR'S     •  AT    •  rHE     •     SPRING 


Alms  in  Autumn 

PINDLE-WOOD,    splndle-wood,    will    you 

lend  me,  pray, 
A  little  flaming   lantern   to   guide   me  on  my 
way? 
The  fairies  all  have  vanished  from  the  meadow  and 

the  glen. 
And  I  would  fain  go  seeking  till  I  find  them  once 

again. 
Lend  me  now  a  lantern  that  I  may  bear  a  light 
To  find  the  hidden  pathway  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night. 

Ash-tree,  ash-tree,  throw  me,  if  you  please. 

Throw  me  down  a  slender  branch   of  russet-gold 

keys. 
I  fear  the  gates  of  Fairyland  may  all  be  shut  so  fast 
That  nothing  but  your  magic   keys  will  ever  take 

me  past. 
I'll  tie  them  to  my  girdle,  and  as  I  go  along 
My  heart  will  find  a  comfort  in  the  tinkle  of  their 

song. 

105 


rHE     •     TEAR'S     •     Ar    •     1' H  E     •     SPRING 


Holly-bush,  holly-bush,  help  me  in  my  task, 

A  pocketful  of  berries  is  all  the  alms  I  ask  : 

A  pocketful  of  berries  to  thread  in  golden  strands 

(I   would    not   go   a- visiting   with    nothing   in    my 

hands). 
So  fine  will  be  the  rosy  chains,  so  gay,  so  glossy 

bright, 

They'll  set  the  realms  of  Fairyland  all  dancing  with 

delight. 

ROSE  FYLEMAN 


106 


THE     ■     TEAR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


I  Don't  Like  Beetles 

1  DON'T  like  beetles,  tho'  I'm  sure  they're  very 
good, 
I  don't   like   porridge,    tho'    my    Nanna   says    I 
should  ; 
I  don't  like  the  cistern  in  the  attic  where  I  play, 
And   the   funny  noise  the  bath    makes  when    the 
water  runs  away. 

I  don't  like  the  feeling  when  my  gloves  are  made 

of  silk, 
And  that  dreadful  slimy  skinny  stuff  on  top  of  hot 

milk  ; 
I  don't  like  tigers,  not  even  in  a  book. 
And,   I   know  it's   very  naughty,  but    I    don't  like 

Cook  ! 

ROSE  FYLEMAN 


107 


THE     ■     YEAR'S.     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


Wishes 

WISH  I  liked  rice  pudding, 

I  wish  I  were  a  twin, 
I  wish  some  day  a  real  live  fairy 

Would  just  come  walking  in. 

I  wish  when  I'm  at  table 

My  feet  would  touch  the  floor, 

I  wish  our  pipes  would  burst  next  winter, 
Just  like  they  did  next  door. 

I  wish  that  I  could  whistle 
Real  proper  grown-up  tunes, 

I  wish  they'd  let  me  sweep  the  chimneys 
On  rainy  afternoons. 

I've  got  such  heaps  of  wishes, 

I've  only  said  a  few  ; 
I  wish  that  I  could  wake  some  morning 

And  find  they'd  all  come  true  ! 

ROSE  FYLEMAN 


1 08 


THE     ■     YEAR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE    ■     SPRING 


Very  Nearly! 

I  NEVER  (/iiz^e  saw  fairy-folk 
A-dancIng  in  the  glade, 
Where,  just  beyond  the  hollow  oak, 
Their  broad  green  rings  are  laid  : 
But,  while  behind  that  oak  I  hid, 
One  day  I  very  nearly  did  ! 

I  never  quite  saw  mermaids  rise 

Above  the  twilight  sea, 
When  sands,  left  wet,   neath  sunset  skies, 

Are  blushing  rosily : 
But — all  alone,  those  rocks  amid — 
One  night  I  very  nearly  did ! 

I  never  quite  saw  Goblin  Grim 

Who  haunts  our  lumber  room 
And  pops  his  head  above  the  rim 

Of  that  oak  chest's  deep  gloom  : 
But  once — when  Mother  raised  the  lid — 
/  very,  very  nearly  did ! 

OUEENIE  SCOTT-HOPPER 
109 


THE     ■     rEJR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


What  the  Thrush  Says 

COME  and  see  I     Come  and  see  !  " 
The  Thrush  pipes  out  of  the  hawthorn-tree 
And  I  and  Dicky  on  tiptoe  go 
To  see  what  treasures  he  wants  to  show. 
His  call  is  clear  as  a  call  can  be — 
And  "  Come  and  see  !  "  he  says  : 

"  Come  and  see  !  " 


"  Come  and  see  !     Come  aitd  see  !  " 
His  house  is  there  in  the  hawthorn-tree  : 
The  neatest  house  that  ever  you  saw, 
Built  all  of  mosses  and  twigs  and  straw  : 
The  folk  who  built  were  his  wife  and  he — 
And  "  Come  and  see  !  "  he  says  : 

"  Come  and  see  !  " 


"  Come  and  see  !     Come  and  see  !  " 
Within  this  house  there  are  treasures  three : 
So  warm  and  snug  in  its  curve  they  lie — 
Like  three  bright  bits  out  of  Spring's  blue  sky. 

no 


THE     '     TEAR'S     •  AT    •  THE     •  SPRING 

We  would  not  hurt  them,  he  knows  ;  not  we  ! 
So  "  Come  and  see  !  "  he  says  : 

"  Come  and  see  !  " 

''  Come  and  see  !     Come  and  see  !  " 
No  thrush  was  ever  so  proud  as  he ! 
His  bright-eyed  lady  has  left  those  eggs 
For  just  five  minutes  to  stretch  her  legs. 
He's  keeping  guard  in  the  hawthorn-tree, 
And  "  Come  and  see  !  "  he  says  : 

"  Come  and  see  !  " 

"  Come  and  see  !     Come  and  see  !  " 

He  has  no  fear  of  the  boys  and  me. 

He  came  and  shared  in  our  meals,  you  know. 

In  hungry  times  of  the  frost  and  snow. 

So  now  we  share  in  his  Secret  Tree 

Where  "  Come  and  see  !  "  he  says  : 

"  Come  and  see  !  " 

QUEENIE  SCOTT-HOPPER 


I II 


THE     ■     r  E  J  R'S     ■     AT    •     THE     ■     SPRING 


The  Sunset  Garden 

I  CAN  see  from  the  window  a  httle  brown  house, 
And  the  garden  goes  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill. 
And  the  sun  comes  each  day, 
And  slips  down  away 
At  the  end  of  the  garden  an'  sleeps  there  .   .   .  until 
The  daylight  comes  climbing  up  over  the  hill. 

I  do  wish  I  lived  in  the  little  brown  house, 
Then  at  night  I'd  go  out  to  the  garden,  an'  creep 

Up  .   .   .  up  .   .    .  then  I'd  stop. 

An'  lean  over  the  top, 
At  the  end  of  the  garden,  an'  so  I  could  peep. 
And  see  what  the  sun  looks  like  when  it's  asleep. 

MARION  ST  JOHN  WEBB 


I  12 


THE     ■     YEAR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


Sweet  as  the  Breath  of 
the  Whin 

r^WEET  as  the  breath  of  the  whin 
^^     Is  the  thought  of  my  love — 

1  Sweet  as  the  breath  of  the  whin 
\y      In  the  noonday  sun — 
Sweet  as  the  breath  of  the  whin 

In  the  sun  after  rain. 

Glad  as  the  gold  of  the  whin 
Is  the  thought  of  my  love — 

Glad  as  the  gold  of  the  whin 
Since  wandering's  done — 

Glad  as  the  gold  of  the  whin 
Is  my  heart,  home  again. 

WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON 


H  113 


THE     ■     YEAR'S     ■     At    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


The  Law  the  Lawyers 
Know  About 

THE  law  the  lawyers  know  about 
Is  property  and  land  ; 
But  why  the  leaves  are  on  the  trees, 
And  why  the  winds  disturb  the  seas, 
Why  honey  is  the  food  of  bees. 
Why  horses  have  such  tender  knees, 
Why  winters  come  and  rivers  freeze, 
W^hy  Faith  is  more  than  what  one  sees. 
And  Hope  survives  the  worst  disease, 
And  Charity  is  more  than  these. 
They  do  not  understand. 

H.  D.  C.  PEPLER 


114 


rHE     ■     YEAR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 

AH  is  Spirit  and  Part 

of  Me 

A  GREATER  lover  none  can  be, 
And  all  is  spirit  and  part  of  me. 
I   am  sway  of  the  rolling  hills, 
And  breath  from  the  great  wide  plains ; 
I  am  born  of  a  thousand  storms. 
And  grey  with  the  rushing  rains  ; 
I  have  stood  with  the  age-long  rocks, 
And  flowered  with  the  meadow  sweet ; 
I  have  fought  with  the  wind-worn  firs, 
And  bent  with  the  ripening  wheat  ; 
I  have  watched  with  the  solemn  clouds, 
And  dreamt  with  the  moorland  pools  ; 
I  have  raced  with  the  water's  whirl, 
And  lain  where  their  anger  cools  ; 
I  have  hovered  as  strong-winged  bird, 
And  swooped  as  I  saw  my  prey ; 
I  have  risen  with  cold  grey  dawn, 
And  flamed  in  the  dying  day ; 
For  all  is  spirit  and  part  of  me. 
And  greater  lover  none  can  be. 

L.  D'O.  WALTERS 

115 


rHE     ■     YEAR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


Street  Lanterns 


OUNTRY  roads  are  yellow  and  brown. 
We  mend  the  roads  in  London  Town. 


f 

1     I   Never  a  hansom  dare  come  nigh, 
^^    Never  a  cart  goes  rolling  by. 

An  unwonted  silence  steals 
In  between  the  turning  wheels. 

Quickly  ends  the  autumn  day, 
And  the  workman  goes  his  way, 

Leaving,  midst  the  traffic  rude. 
One  small  isle  of  solitude, 

Lit,  throughout  the  lengthy  night, 
By  the  little  lantern's  light. 

Jewels  of  the  dark  have  we. 
Brighter  than  the  rustic's  be. 

Over  the  dull  earth  are  thrown 
Topaz,  and  the  ruby  stone. 

MARY  E.  COLERIDGE 
ii6 


THE    .    YEAR'S     ■    AT    ■     THE     ■    SPRING 


To  Betsey-Jane,  on  her 
Desiring  to  go  Incon- 
tinently to  Heaven 

Y  Betsey-Jane,  it  would  not  do, 
For  what  would  Heaven  make  of  you, 
A  little,  honey-loving  bear, 
Among  the  Blessed  Babies  there  ? 

Nor  do  you  dwell  with  us  in  vain 
Who  tumble  and  get  up  again 
And  try,  with  bruised  knees,  to  smile — 
Sweet,  you  are  blessed  all  the  while 

And  we  in  you  :   so  wait,  they'll  come 
To  take  your  hand  and  fetch  you  home, 
In  Heavenly  leaves  to  play  at  tents 
With  all  the  Holy  Innocents. 

HELEN   PARRY  EDEN 


117 


THE     •     YEAR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


The  Bridge 


ERE,  with  one  leap, 
The  bridge  that  spans  the  cutting  ;   on  its 

back 
The  load 
Of  the  main-road, 
And  under  it  the  railway-track. 

Into  the  plains  they  sweep, 

Into  the  solitary  plains  asleep. 

The  flowing  lines,  the  parallel  lines  of  steel — 

Fringed  with  their  narrow  grass, 

Into  the  plains  they  pass. 

The  flowing  lines,  like  arms  of  mute  appeal. 

A  cry 

Prolonged  across  the  earth — a  call 
To  the  remote  horizons  and  the  sky  ; 
The  whole  east  rushes  down  them  with  its  light. 
And  the  whole  west  receives  them,  with  its  pall 
Of  stars  and  night — 

The  flowing  lines,  the  parallel  lines  of  steel. 

ii8 


THE     •  TEAR'S     ■     AT    •  THE     •  SPRING 

And  with  the  fall 

Of  darkness,  see  !  the  red, 

Bright  anger  of  the  signal,  where  it  flares 

Like  a  huge  eye  that  stares 

On  some  hid  danger  in  the  dark  ahead. 

A  twang  of  wire — unseen 

The  signal  drops ;  and  now,  instead 

Of  a  red  eye,  a  green. 

Out  of  the  silence  grows 

An  iron  thunder — grows,  and  roars,  and  sweeps. 

Menacing !     The  plain 

Suddenly  leaps, 

Startled,  from  its  repose — 

Alert  and  listening.     Now,  from  the  gloom 

Of  the  soft  distance,  loom 

Three  lights  and,  over  them,  a  brush 

Of  tawny  flame  and  flying  spark — 

Three  pointed  lights  that  rush, 

Monstrous,  upon  the  cringing  dark. 

And  nearer,  nearer  rolls  the  sound. 
Louder  the  throb  and  roar  of  wheels, 
The  shout  of  speed,  the  shriek  of  steam  ; 
The  sloping  bank. 

Cut  into  flashing  squares,  gives  back  the  clank 

119 


THE     •  YEAR'S     •  At    -     THE     •     SPRING 

And  grind  of  metal,  while  the  ground 

Shudders  and  the  bridge  reels — 

As,  with  a  scream. 

The  train, 

A  rage  of  smoke,  a  laugh  of  fire, 

A  lighted  anguish  of  desire, 

A  dream 

Of  gold  and  iron,  of  sound  and  flight. 

Tumultuous  roars  across  the  night. 

The  train  roars  past — and,  with  a  cry. 

Drowned  in  a  flying  howl  of  wind. 

Half-stifled  in  the  smoke  and  blind. 

The  plain. 

Shaken,  exultant,  unconfined, 

Rises,  flows  on,  and  follows,  and  sweeps  by, 

Shrieking,  to  lose  itself  in  distance  and  the  sky. 

J.  REDWOOD  ANDERSON 


120 


THE     ■    YEAR'S    ■    AT    ■     THE     ■    SPRING 


February 

TH  E  robin  on  my  lawn 
He  was  the  first  to  tell 
How,  in  the  frozen  dawn, 
This  miracle  befell. 
Waking  the  meadows  white 
With  hoar,  the  iron  road 
Agleam  with  splintered  light. 
And  ice  where  water  flowed  : 
Till,  when  the  low  sun  drank 
Those  milky  mists  that  cloak 
Hanger  and  hollied  bank, 
The  winter  world  awoke 
To  hear  the  feeble  bleat 
Of  lambs  on  downland  farms  : 
A  blackbird  whistled  sweet ; 
Old  beeches  moved  their  arms 
Into  a  mellow  haze 
Aerial,  newly-born  : 
And  I,  alone,  agaze. 
Stood  waiting  for  the  thorn 


121 


THE     •     TEAR'S     •  AT    •  THE     •  SPRING 

To  break  in  blossom  white, 
Or  burst  in  a  green  flame.   .   .   . 
So,  in  a  single  night, 
Fair  February  came, 
Bidding  my  lips  to  sing 
Or  whisper  their  surprise, 
With  all  the  joy  of  spring 
And  morning  in  her  eyes. 

FRANCIS  BRETT  YOUNG 


122 


THE    ■     YEAR'S    ■    AT    •     THE    ■    SPRING 


Sea-Foam 

A  FLECK  of  foam  on  the  shining  sand, 
Left  by  the  ebbing  sea, 
But  richer  than  man  may  understand 
In  magic  and  mystery — 
Transient  bubbles  rainbow-bright, 

Myriad-hued  and  strange, 
Tremble  and  throb  in  the  noonday  light, 
Flower  and  flush  and  change. 

A  million  tides  have  come  and  gone, 

Great  gales  of  autumn  and  spring, 
A  million  summoning  moons  have  shone 

To  bring  to  birth  this  thing — 
A  foam-fleck  left  on  the  ribbed  wet  sand 

By  the  wave  of  an  outgoing  sea, 
With  all  the  colour  of  Faeryland, 

Wonder  and  mystery. 

TERESA  HOOLEY 


123 


7HE     ■     YEAR'S     ■     AT    ■     THE     ■     SPRING 


A  Petition 

ALL  that  a  man  might  ask,  thou  hast  given 
me,   England, 
Birth-right     and     happy    childhood's     long 
heart's-ease. 
And  love  whose  range  is  deep  beyond  all  sounding 
And  wider  than  all  seas. 


A  heart  to  front  the  world  and  find  God  in  it, 
Eyes  blind  enow,  but  not  too  blind  to  see 

The     lovely     things     behind     the     dross     and 
darkness, 
And  lovelier  things  to  be. 

And   friends   whose    loyalty   time    nor    death    shall 
weaken, 
And    quenchless    hope    and    laughter's    golden 
store  ; 
All   that   a    man    might  ask   thou   hast   given    me, 
England, 
Yet  grant  thou  one  thing  more  : 

124 


THE     '     TEAR'S     ■     AT    •  THE     -     SPRING 

That   now   when    envious    foes    would    spoil    thy 
splendour, 

Unversed  in  arms,  a  dreamer  such  as  I 
May  in  thy  ranks  be  deemed  not  all  unworthy, 

England,  for  thee  to  die. 

R.  E.  VERNEDE 


125 


THE     •  TEAR'S     •  AT    ■     THE     •  SPRING 


Black  and  White 

1MET  a  man  along  the  road 
To  Withernsea  ; 
Was  ever  anything  so  dark,  so  pale 
Ashe? 
His  hat,  his  clothes,  his  tie,  his  boots 
Were  black  as  black 
Could  be. 
And  midst  of  all  was  a  cold  white  face, 
And  eyes  that  looked  wearily. 


The  road  was  bleak  and  straight  and  flat 

To  Withernsea, 
Gaunt  poles  with  shrilling  wires  their  weird 

Did  dree  ; 
On  the  sky  stood  out,  on  the  swollen  sky 
The  black  blood  veins 

Of  tree 
After  tree,  as  they  beat  from  the  face 
Of  the  wind  which  they  could  not  flee. 

And  in  the  fields  along  the  road 
To  Withernsea, 
126 


rHE     •     YEAR'S     '     AT    ■     THE     •  SFRJNG 


Swart  crows  sat  huddled  on  the  ground 

Disconsolately, 
While    overhead    the   seamews   wheeled,    and 
skirled 

In  glee  ; 
But  the  black  cows  stood,  and  cropped  where 
they  stood. 

And  never  heeded  thee, 
O  dark  pale  man,  with  the  weary  eyes, 

On  the  road  to  Withernsea. 

H.  H.  ABBOTT 


127 


THE     '     TERR'S     •     AT    •  THE     •     SPRING 


The  Oxen 

CHRISTMAS   EVE,  and  twelve  of  the 
clock. 
"  Now  they  are  all  on  their  knees," 
An  elder  said  as  we  sat  in  a  flock 
By  the  embers  in  hearthside  ease. 

We  pictured  the  meek  mild  creatures  where 

They  dwelt  in  their  strawy  pen, 
Nor  did  it  occur  to  one  of  us  there 

To  doubt  they  were  kneeling  then. 

So  fair  a  fancy  few  believe 

In  these  years  !     Yet,  I  feel. 
If  someone  said  on  Christmas  Eve 

"  Come  ;  see  the  oxen  kneel 

In  the  lonely  barton  by  yonder  coomb 

Our  childhood  used  to  know," 
I  should  go  with  him  in  the  gloom, 

Hoping  it  might  be  so. 

THOMAS  HARDY 


UC  SOUTHERN  RFGIOMAl  LIBWRY  f  SCILITY 

11 


D    000  807  918    8 


